AT   LOS  ANGELES 


llrs,      I.Iabel  Herbert 


MASTERPIECES  OF 

FRENCH    FICTION 

Crownefc  bg 

The  Academic  Francaise 

> 

fjnown  as 

"THE   IMMORTALS" 


Monsieur,  Madame,  and 


By    GUSTAVE    DROZ 


Crowned   by    the    French    Academy 


With  a  Preface  by  CAMILLE 
DOUCET,  of  the  French  Acad- 
emy, and  Illustrations  by  MILLI- 
CENT  WOODFORDE,  of  the 
Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  ::  ::  :: 


NEW    YORK 

Current  Literature  Publishing  Company 

1908 


COPYRIGHT,    1905 

BY 
ROBERT    ARNOT 


rw/ 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 


te 


[TOINE- GUSTAVE    DROZ     was 

born  in  Paris,  June  9,  1832.  He  was 
the  son  of  Jules-Antoine  Droz,  a  cele- 
brated French  sculptor,  and  grand- 
son of  Jean  Pierre  Droz,  master  of 
the  mint  and  medalist  under  the 
Directoire.  The  family  is  of  Swiss 
origin.  Gustave  entered  L'Ecole  des 
Beaux  Arts  and  became  quite  a  noted  artist,  coming 
out  in  the  Salon  of  1857  with  the  painting  L'Obole  de 
Cesar.  He  also  exhibited  a  little  later  various  tableaux 
de  genre :  Buffet  de  chemin  de  jer  (1863),  A  la  Sacristie 
and  Un  Succes  de  Salon  (1864),  Monsieur  le  Cure,  vous 
avez  Raison  and  Un  Froid  Sec  (1865). 

Toward  this  period,  however,  he  abandoned  the  art 
of  painting  and  launched  on  the  career  of  an  author, 
contributing  under  the  name  of  Gustave  Z  ...  to  La 
Vie  Parisienne.  His  articles  found  great  favor,  he 
showed  himself  an  exquisite  raconteur,  a  sharp  ob- 
server of  intimate  family  life,  and  a  most  penetrating 
analyst.  The  very  gallant  sketches,  later  reunited  in 
Monsieur,  Madame,  el  Bebe  (1866),  and  crowned  by  the 
Academy,  have  gone  through  many  editions.  Entre 
nous  (1867)  and  Une  Femme  genante,  are  written  in  the 
same  humorous  strain,  and  procured  him  many  ad- 

M 


377311 


PREFACE 

mirers  by  the  vivacious  and  sparkling  representations  of 
bachelor  and  connubial  life.  However,  Droz  knows 
very  well  where  to  draw  the  line,  and  has  formally  dis- 
avowed a  lascivious  novel  published  in  Belgium — Un 
Ete  a  la  campagne,  often,  but  erroneously,  attributed  to 
him. 

It  seems  that  Gustave  Droz  later  joined  the  pessimis- 
tic camp.  His  works,  at  least,  indicate  other  qualities 
than  those  which  gained  for  him  the  favor  of  the  read- 
ing public.  He  becomes  a  more  ingenious  romancer,  a 
more  delicate  psychologist.  If  some  of  his  sketches  are 
realistic,  we  must  consider  that  realism  is  not  intended 
POUT  les  jeuncs  filles  du  pensionnat. 

Beside  the  works  mentioned  in  the  above  text,  Gus- 
tave Droz  wrote:  Le  Cahier  bleu  de  Mademoiselle 
Cibot  (1868),  Auteur  d'une  Source  (1869),  Un  Paquet 
de  Lettres  (1870),  Babolain  (1872),  Les  Etangs  (1875), 
Tristesses  et  Sourires  (1883),  and  L' Enfant  (1884). 

He  died  in  Paris,  October  22,  1895. 


de  1'Acadcmie  Frangaise. 


[vi] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  I 

FAGH 

MY  FIRST  SUPPER  PARTY i 

CHAPTER  II 
THE  SOUL  IN  AGONY 6 

CHAPTER  III 
MADAME  DE  K 15 

CHAPTER  IV 
SOUVENIRS  OF  LENT 23 

CHAPTER  V 
MADAME  AND  HER  FRIEND  CHAT  BY  THE  FIRESIDE  .  .  34 

CHAPTER  VI 
A  DREAM 41 

CHAPTER  VII 
AN  EMBASSY  BALL 53 

CHAPTER  VIII 

MY  AUNT  AS  VENUS »«S9 

CHAPTER  IX 

HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 68 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  X 

PAGE 

MADAME'S  IMPRESSIONS 79 

CHAPTER  XI 
A  WEDDING  NIGHT 90 

CHAPTER  XII 
THE  HONEYMOON 96 

CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  BLUE  NOTE-BOOK 106 

\ 
CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  BLUE  NOTE-BOOK  AGAIN 119 

CHAPTER  XV 
MY  WIFE  GOES  TO  A  DANCE 127 

CHAPTER  XVI 
A  FALSE  ALARM   *-„.. 138 

CHAPTER  XVII 
I  SUP  WITH  MY  WIFE 155 

CHAPTER  XVIII 
FROM  ONE  THING  TO  ANOTHER ,  163 

CHAPTER  XIX 
A  LITTLE  CHAT 171 

CHAPTER  XX 
THE  HOT- WATER  BOTTLE iSo 

[viiij 


PAGB 

A  LONGING 186 

CHAPTER  XXII 
FAMILY  LIFE 194 

CHAPTER  XXIII 
NEW  YEAR'S  DAY 203 

CHAPTER  XXIV 
LETTER  OF  A  YOUNG  MOTHER  TO  HER  FRIEND     .     .     .212 

CHAPTER  XXV 
FOUR  YEARS  LATER 217 

CHAPTER  XXVI 
OLD  RECOLLECTIONS 220 

CHAPTER  XXVII 
THE  LITTLE  BOOTS 227 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 
BABIES  AND  PAPAS 235 

CHAPTER  XXIX 
His  FIRST  BREECHES 244 

CHAPTER  XXX 
COUNTRY  CHILDREN 250 

CHAPTER  XXXI 
AUTUMN 257 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XXXII 

PAGE 

HE  WOULD  HAVE  BEEN  FORTY  Now 262 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 
CONVALESCENCE 266 

CHAPTER  XXXIV 
FAMILY  TIES 270 


SHORT  STORY 

A  MODERN  MIRACLE 


277 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACING  PAGE 

Gustave  Droz  (portrait) Frontispiece 

"Yes,  I  have  some  ideas  about  applying  liquid  white"  .     .     64 
"The  man  was  just  going  to  shut  up  shop" 192 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  BEBfl 


CHAPTER  I 

MY  FIRST  SUPPER  PARTY 

HE  devil  take  me  if  I  can  remember 
her  name,  notwithstanding  I  dearly 
loved  her,  the  charming  girl ! 

It  is  strange    how  rich  we  find 
ourselves  when^  we  rummage  in  old 
drawers;   how  many  forgotten  sighs, 
1  how    many    pretty    little    trinkets, 
^SJWSga^  broken,  old-fashioned,  and  dusty,  we 
come  across.    But  no  matter.    I  was  now  eighteen,  and, 
upon  my  honor,  very  unsuspecting.    It  was  in  the  arms 
of  that  dear — I  have  her  name  at  the  tip  of  my  tongue, 
it  ended  in  "ine" — it  was  in  her  arms,  the  dear  child, 
that  I  murmured  my  first  words  of  love,  while  I  was 
close  to  her  rounded  shoulder,  which  had  a  pretty  little 
mole,  where  I  imprinted  my  first  kiss.     I  adored  her, 
and  she  returned  my  affection. 

I  really  think  I  should  have  married  her,  and  that 
cheerfully,  I  can  assure  you,  if  it  had  not  been  that  on 
certain  details  of  moral  weakness  her  past  life  in- 
spired me  with  doubts,  and  her  present  with  uneasi- 
ness. No  man  is  perfect;  I  was  a  trifle  jealous. 

i 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Well,  one  evening — it  was  Christmas  eve — I  called 
to  take  her  to  supper  with  a  friend  of  mine  whom  I 
esteemed  much,  and  who  became  an  examining  magis- 
trate, I  do  not  know  where,  but  he  is  now,  dead. 

I  went  upstairs  to  the  room  of  the  sweet  girl,  and 
was  quite  surprised  to  find  her  ready  to  start.  She  had 
on,  I  remember,  a  square-cut  bodice,  a  little  too  low  to 
my  taste,  but  it  became  her  so  well  that  when  she 
embraced  me  I  was  tempted  to  say:  "I  say,  pet,  sup- 
pose we  remain  here" ;  but  she  took  my  arm,  humming 
a  favorite  air  of  hers,  and  we  soon  found  ourselves  in 
the  street. 

You  have  experienced,  have  you  not,  this  first  joy 
of  the  youth  who  at  once  becomes  a  man  when  he  has 
his  sweetheart  on  his  arm?  He  trembles  at  his  bold- 
ness, and  scents  on  the  morrow  the  paternal  rod;  yet 
all  these  fears  are  dissipated  in  the  presence  of  the  in- 
effable happiness  of  the  moment.  He  is  free,  he  is  a 
man,  he  loves,  he  is  loved,  he  is  conscious  that  he  is 
taking  a  forward  step  in  life.  He  would  like  all  Paris 
to  see  him  thus,  yet  he  is  afraid  of  being  recognized ; 
he  would  give  his  little  finger  to  grow  three  hairs  on 
his  upper  lip,  and  to  have  a  wrinkle  on  his  brow,  to  be 
able  to  smoke  a  cigar  without  being  sick,  and  to  polish 
off  a  glass  of  punch  without  coughing. 

When  we  reached  my  friend's,  the  aforesaid  examin- 
ing magistrate,  we  found  a  numerous  company;  from 
the  ante-room  we  could  hear  bursts  of  laughter,  noisy 
conversation,  accompanied  by  the  clatter  of  plate  and 
crockery,  which  was  being  placed  upon  the  table.  1 
was  a  little  excited ;  I  knew  that  I  was  the  youngest  of 

[2] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

the  party,  and  I  was  afraid  of  appearing  awkward  on 
that  night  of  revelry.  I  said  to  myself:  "Old  boy,  you 
must  face  the  music,  do  the  grand,  and  take  your  liquor 
like  a  little  man;  your  sweetheart  is  here,  and  her  eyes 
are  fixed  on  you."  The  idea,  however,  that  I  might  be 
ill  next  morning  did  indeed  trouble  me;  in  my  mind's 
eye,  I  saw  my  poor  mother  bringing  me  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  weeping  over  my  excesses,  but  I  chased  away  all 
such  thoughts  and  really  all  went  well  up  till  supper- 
time.  My  sweetheart  had  been  pulled  about  a  little, 
no  doubt;  one  or  two  men  had  even  kissed  her  under 
my  very  nose,  but  I  at  once  set  down  these  details  to 
the  profit  and  loss  column,  and  in  all  sincerity  I  was 
proud  and  happy. 

"My  young  friends,"  suddenly  exclaimed  our  host, 
"it  is  time  to  use  your  forks  vigorously.  Let  us  ad- 
journ to  the  dining-room." 

Joyful  shouts  greeted  these  words,  and,  amid  great 
disorder,  the  guests  arranged  themselves  round  the 
table,  at  each  end  of  which  I  noticed  two  plates  filled 
up  with  those  big  cigars  of  which  I  could  not  smoke  a 
quarter  without  having  a  fit  of  cold  shivers. 

"Those  cigars  will  lead  to  a  catastrophe,  if  I  don't 
use  prudence  and  dissemble,"  said  I  to  myself. 

I  do  not  know  how  it  was,  but  my  sweetheart  found 
herself  seated  on  the  left  of  the  host.  I  did  not  like 
that,  but  what  could  I  say?  And  then,  the  said  hostr 
with  his  twenty-five  summers,  his  moustache  curled 
up  at  the  ends,  and  his  self-assurance,  seemed  to  me 
the  most  ideal,  the  most  astounding  of  young  devils,, 
and  I  felt  for  him  a  shade  of  respect. 

[3] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  captivating  volubility,  "you 
are  feeling  yourself  at  home,  are  you  not  ?  You  know 
any  guest  who  feels  uncomfortable  in  his  coat  may 
take  it  off  ...  and  the  ladies,  too.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
That's  the  way  to  make  one's  self  happy,  is  it  not,  my 
little  dears?"  And  before  he  had  finished  laughing  he 
printed  a  kiss  right  and  left  on  the  necks  of  his  two 
neighbors,  one  of  whom,  as  I  have  already  said,  was 
my  beloved. 

The  ill-bred  dog !  I  felt  my  hair  rise  on  end  and  my 
face  glow  like  red-hot  iron.  For  the  rest,  everybody 
burst  out  laughing,  and  from  that  moment  the  supper 
went  on  with  increased  animation. 

"My  young  friends,"  was  the  remark  of  that  infernal 
examining  magistrate,  "let  us  attack  the  cold  meat,  the 
sausages,  the  turkey,  the  salad;  let  us  at  the  cakes,  the 
cheese,  the  oysters,  and  the  grapes;  let  us  attack  the 
whole  show.  Waiter,  draw  the  corks  and  we  will  eat 
up  everything  at  once,  eh,  my  cherubs?  No  ceremony, 
no  false  delicacy.  This  is  fine  fun;  it  is  Oriental,  it 
is  splendid.  In  the  centre  of  Africa  everybody  acts  in 
this  manner.  We  must  introduce  poetry  into  our 
pleasures.  Pass  me  some  cheese  with  my  turkey. 
Ha !  ha !  ha !  I  feel  queer,  I  am  wild,  I  am  crazy,  am 
I  not,  pets?"  And  he  bestowed  two  more  kisses,  as  be- 
fore. If  I  had  not  been  already  drunk,  upon  my  honor, 
I  should  have  made  a  scene. 

I  was  stupid.  Around  me  they  were  laughing,  shout- 
ing, singing,  and  rattling  their  plates.  A  racket  of 
popping  corks  and  breaking  glasses  buzzed  in  my  ears, 
but  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  cloud  had  risen  between 

[4] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

me  and  the  outer  world ;  a  veil  separated  me  from  the 
other  guests,  and,  in  spite  of  the  evidence  of  my  senses, 
I  thought  I  was  dreaming.  I  could  distinguish,  how- 
ever, though  in  a  confused  manner,  the  animated  glances 
and  heightened  color  of  the  guests,  and,  above  all,  a 
disorder  quite  new  to  me  in  the  toilettes  of  the  ladies. 
Even  my  sweetheart  appeared  to  have  changed.  Sud- 
denly— it  was  as  a  flash  of  lightning — my  beloved,  my 
angel,  my  ideal,  she  whom  that  very  morning  I  was 
ready  to  marry,  leaned  toward  the  examining  magis- 
trate and — I  still  feel  the  cold  shudder — devoured  three 
truffles  which  were  on  his  plate. 

I  experienced  keen  anguish;  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
my  heart  were  breaking  just  then. 

Here  my  recollections  cease.  What  then  took  place 
I  do  not  know.  All  I  remember  is  that  some  one  took 
me  home  in  a  cab.  I  kept  asking:  "Where  is  she? 
Where?  Oh,  where?" 

I  was  told  that  she  had  left  two  hours  before.  The 
next  morning  I  experienced  a  keen  sense  of  despair 
when  the  truffles  of  the  examining  magistrate  came 
back  to  mind.  For  a  moment  I  had  a  vague  idea  of 
entering  upon  holy  orders,  but  time — you  know  what 
it  is — calmed  my  troubled  breast.  But  what  the  devil 
was  her  name?  It  ended  in  "ine."  Indeed,  no,  I  be- 
lieve it  ended  in  "a." 


[5] 


CHAPTER  II 


THE  SOUL  IN  AGONY. 

To  MONSIEUR  CLAUDE  DE  L 

Seminary  of  P sur-C 

(Haute-Saone). 

T  affords  me  unspeakable  pleasure  to  sit 
down  to  address  you,  dear  Claude.  Must  I 
tell  you  that  I  can  not  think  without  pious 
emotion  of  that  life  which  but  yesterday  we 
were  leading  together  at  the  Jesuits'  College. 
How  well  I  remember  our  long  talks  under 
the  great  trees,  the  pious  pilgrimages  we  daily 
made  to  the  Father  Superior's  Calvary,  our 
charming  readings,  the  darting  forth  of  our 
two  souls  toward  the  eternal  source  of  all 
greatness  and  all  goodness.  I  can  still  see  the  little  chapel  which 
you  fitted  up  one  day  in  your  desk,  the  pretty  wax  tapers  we 
made  for  it,  which  we  lighted  one  day  during  the  cosmography 
class. 

Oh,  sweet  recollections,  how  dear  you  are  to  me!  Charming 
details  of  a  calm  and  holy  life,  with  what  happiness  do  I  recall 
you !  Time  in  separating  you  from  me  seems  only  to  have  brought 
you  nearer  in  recollection.  I  have  seen  life,  alas!  during  these 
six  long  months,  but,  in  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  the  world,  I 
have  learned  to  love  still  more  the  innocent  ignorance  of  my  past 
existence.  Wiser  than  myself,  you  have  remained  in  the  service 
of  the  Lord;  you  have  understood  the  divine  mission  which  had 
been  reserved  for  you;  you  have  been  unwilling  to  step  over  the 

[6] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

profane  threshold  and  to  enter  the  world,  that  cavern,  I  ought  to 
say,  in  which  I  am  now  assailed,  tossed  about  like  a  frail  bark 
during  a  tempest.  Nay,  the  anger  of  the  waves  of  the  sea  com- 
pared to  that  of  the  passions  is  mere  child's  play.  Happy  friend, 
who  art  ignorant  of  what  I  have  learned.  Happy  friend,  whose 
eyes  have  not  yet  measured  the  abyss  into  which  mine  are  al- 
ready sunk. 

But  what  was  I  to  do  ?  Was  I  not  obliged — despite  my  voca- 
tion and  the  tender  friendship  which  called  me  to  your  side — was 
I  not  obliged,  I  say,  to  submit  to  the  exigencies  imposed  by  the 
name  I  bear,  and  also  to  the  will  of  my  father,  who  destined  me 
for  a  military  career  in  order  to  defend  a  noble  cause  which  you 
too  would  defend?  In  short,  I  obeyed  and  quitted  the  college 
of  the  Fathers  never  to  return  again. 

I  went  into  the  world,  my  heart  charged  with  the  salutary  fears 
which  our  pious  education  had  caused  to  grow  up  there.  I  ad- 
vanced cautiously,  but  very  soon  recoiled  horror-stricken.  I  am 
eighteen ;  I  am  still  young,  I  know,  but  I  have  already  reflected 
much,  while  the  experience  of  my  pious  instructors  has  imparted 
to  my  soul  a  precocious  maturity  which  enables  me  to  judge  of 
many  things;  besides  my  faith  is  so  firmly  established  and  so 
deeply  rooted  in  my  being,  that  I  can  look  about  me  without  dan- 
ger. I  do  not  fear  for  my  own  salvation,  but  I  am  shocked  when 
I  think  of  the  future  of  our  modern  society,  and  I  pray  the  Lord 
fervently,  from  a  heart  untainted  by  sin,  not  to  turn  away  His 
countenance  in  wrath  from  our  unhappy  country.  Even  here,  at 

the  seat  of  my  cousin,  the  Marchioness  K de  C ,  where  I 

am  at  the  present  moment,  I  can  discover  nothing  but  frivolity 
among  the  men,  and  dangerous  coquetry  among  the  women. 
The  pernicious  atmosphere  of  the  period  seems  to  pervade  even 
the  highest  rank  of  the  French  aristocracy.  Sometimes  discus- 
sions occur  on  matters  pertaining  to  science  and  morals,  which 
aim  a  kind  of  indirect  blow  at  religion  itself,  of  which  our  Holy 
Father  the  Pope  should  alone  be  called  on  to  decide.  In  this  way 
God  permits,  at  the  present  day,  certain  petty  savants,  flat-headed 
men  of  science,  to  explain  in  a  novel  fashion  the  origin  of  human- 

[7] 


GTJSTAVE  DROZ 

ity,  and,  despite  the  excommunication  which  will  certainly  over- 
take them,  to  throw  down  a  wild  and  impious  challenge  at  the 
most  venerable  traditions. 

I  have  not  myself  desired  to  be  enlightened  in  regard  to  such 
base  depravity,  but  I  have  heard  with  poignant  grief  men  with 
great  minds  and  illustrious  names  attach  some  importance  to  it. 

As  to  manners  and  customs,  they  are,  without  being  immoral, 
which  would  be  out  of  the  question  in  our  society,  distinguished 
by  a  frivolity  and  a  faculty  for  being  carried  away  with  allure- 
ments which  are  shocking  in  the  extreme.  I  will  only  give  you  a 
single  example  of  this,  although  it  is  one  that  has  struck  me  most 
forcibly. 

Ten  minutes'  walk  from  the  house  there  is  a  charming  little 
stream  overshadowed  by  spreading  willows;  the  current  is  slight, 
the  water  pellucid,  and  the  bed  covered  with  sand  so  fine  that 
one's  feet  sink  into  it  like  a  carpet.  Now,  would  you  believe  it, 
dear  friend,  that,  in  this  hot  weather,  all  those  staying  at  the 
house  go  at  the  same  time,  together,  and,  without  distinction  of 
sex,  bathe  in  it  ?  A  simple  garment  of  thin  stuff,  and  very  tight, 
somewhat  imperfectly  screens  the  strangely  daring  modesty  of  the 
ladies.  Forgive  me,  my  pious  friend,  for  entering  into  all  these 
details,  and  for  troubling  the  peacefulness  of  your  soul  by  this 
picture  of  worldly  scenes,  but  I  promised  to  share  with  you  my 
impressions,  as  well  as  my  most  secret  thoughts.  It  is  a  sacred 
contract  which  I  am  fulfilling. 

I  will,  therefore,  acknowledge  that  these  bathing  scenes  shocked 
me  greatly,  the  first  time  I  heard  them  spoken  of.  I  resented  it 
with  a  species  of  disgust  easy  to  understand,  while  I  positively 
refused  to  take  part  in  them.  To  speak  the  truth,  I  was  chafed 
a  little;  still,  these  worldly  railleries  could  not  touch  me,  and  had 
no  effect  on  my  determination. 

Yesterday,  however,  about  five  in  the  afternoon,  the  Marchion- 
ess sent  for  me,  and  managed  the  affair  so  neatly,  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  me  not  to  act  as  her  escort. 

We  started.  The  maid  carried  the  bathing  costumes  both  of 
the  Marchioness  and  of  my  sister,  who  was  to  join  us  later. 

[8] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"I  know,"  said  my  cousin,  "that  you  swim  well;  the  fame  of 
your  abilities  has  reached  us  here  from  your  college.  You  are 
going  to  teach  me  to  float,  eh,  Robert?" 

"I  do  not  set  much  store  by  such  paltry  physical  acquirements, 
cousin,"  I  replied;  "I  swim  fairly,  nothing  more." 

And  I  turned  my  head  to  avoid  an  extremely  penetrating  aroma 
with  which  her  hair  was  impregnated.  You  know  very  well  that 
I  am  subject  to  nervous  attacks. 

"But,  my  dear  child,  physical  advantages  are  not  so  much  to 
be  despised." 

This  "dear  child  "  displeased  me  much.  My  cousin  is  twenty- 
six,  it  is  true,  but  I  am  no  longer,  properly  speaking,  a  "dear 
child,"  and  besides,  it  denoted  a  familiarity  which  I  did  not 
care  for.  It  was,  on  the  part  of  the  Marchioness,  one  of  the  con- 
sequences of  that  frivolity  of  mind,  that  carelessness  of  speech 
which  I  mentioned  above,  and  nothing  more;  still,  I  was  shocked 
at  it.  She  went  on: 

"Exaggerated  modesty  is  not  good  form  in  society,"  she  said, 
turning  toward  me  with  a  smile.  "You  will,  in  time,  make  a 
very  handsome  cavalier,  my  dear  Robert,  and  that  which  you  now 
lack  is  easy  to  acquire.  For  instance,  you  should  have  your  hair 
dressed  by  the  Marquis's  valet.  He  will  do  it  admirably,  and 
then  you  will  be  charming." 

You  must  understand,  my  dear  Claude,  that  I  met  these  ad- 
vances with  a  frigidity  of  manner  that  left  no  doubt  as  to  my 
intentions. 

"I  repeat,  my  cousin,"  said  I  to  her,  "I  attach  to  all  this  very 
little  importance,"  and  I  emphasized  my  words  by  a  firm  and  icy 
look.  Then  only,  for  I  had  not  before  cast  my  eyes  on  her,  did 
I  notice  the  peculiar  elegance  of  her  toilette,  an  elegance  for 
which,  unhappily,  the  perishable  beauty  of  her  person  served  as 
a  pretext  and  an  encouragement. 

Her  arms  were  bare,  and  her  wrists  covered  with  bracelets; 
the  upper  part  of  her  neck  was  insufficiently  veiled  by  the  too 
slight  fabric  of  a  transparent  gauze;  in  short,  the  desire  to  please 
was  displayed  in  her  by  all  the  details  of  her  appearance.  I  was 

[9] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

stirred  at  the  aspect  of  so  much  frivolity,  and  I  felt  myself  blush 
for  pity,  almost  for  shame. 

We  reached,  at  length,  the  verge  of  the  stream.  She  loosed  my 
arm  and  unceremoniously  slid  down,  I  can  not  say  seated  her- 
self, upon  the  grass,  throwing  back  the  long  curls  depending 
from  her  chignon.  The  word  chignon,  in  the  language  of  society, 
denotes  that  prominence  of  the  cranium  which  is  to  be  seen  at  the 
back  of  ladies'  heads.  It  is  produced  by  making  coils  or  plaits 
of  their  long  hair.  I  have  cause  to  believe,  from  certain  allusions 
I  have  heard,  that  many  of  these  chignons  are  not  natural.  There 
are  women,  most  worthy  daughters  of  Eve,  who  purchase  for  gold 
the  hair — horresco  referens — of  the  wretched  or  the  dead.  It 
sickens  one. 

"It  is  excessively  hot,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  she,  fanning  her- 
self. "I  tremble  every  moment  in  such  weather  lest  Monsieur 
de  Beaurenard's  nose  should  explode  or  catch  fire.  Ha,  ha,  ha. 
Upon  my  word  of  honor  I  do." 

She  exploded  with  laughter  at  this  joke,  an  unbecoming  one, 
and  without  much  point.  Monsieur  de  Beaurenard  is  a  friend  of 
the  Marquis,  who  happens  to  have  a  high  color.  Out  of  polite- 
ness, I  forced  a  smile,  which  she,  no  doubt,  took  for  approbation, 
for  she  then  launched  out  into  conversation — an  indescribable  flow 
of  chatter,  blending  the  most  profane  sentiments  with  the  strangest 
religious  ideas,  the  quiet  of  the  country  with  the  whirl  of  society, 
and  all  this  with  a  freedom  of  gesture,  a  charm  of  expression,  a 
subtlety  of  glance,  and  a  species  of  earthly  poesy,  by  which  any 
other  soul  than  mine  would  have  been  seduced. 

"This  is  a  pretty  spot,  this  charming  little  nook,  is  it  not?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear  cousin." 

"And  these  old  willows  with  their  large  tops  overhanging  the 
stream;  see  how  the  field-flowers  cluster  gayly  about  their  battered 
trunks!  How  strange,  too,  that  young  foliage,  so  elegant,  so  sil- 
very, those  branches  so  slender  and  so  supple !  So  much  elegance, 
freshness  and  youth  shooting  up  from  that  old  trunk  which  seems 
as  if  accursed!" 

"  God  does  not  curse  a  vegetable,  my  cousin." 

[10] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"That  is  possible;  but  I  can  not  help  finding  in  willows  some- 
thing which  is  suggestive  of  humanity.  Perpetual  old  age  re- 
sembles punishment.  That  old  reprobate  of  the  bank  there  is 
expiating  and  suffering,  that  old  Quasimodo  of  the  fields.  What 
would  you  that  I  should  do  about  it,  my  cousin,  for  that  is  the 
impression  that  it  gives  me?  What  is  there  to  tell  me  that  the 
willow  is  not  the  final  incarnation  of  an  impenitent  angler?" 
And  she  burst  out  laughing. 

"Those  are  pagan  ideas,  and  as  such  are  so  opposed  to  the  dog- 
mas of  faith,  that  I  am  obliged,  in  order  to  explain  their  coming 
from  your  mouth,  to  suppose  that  you  are  trying  to  make  a  fool 
of  me." 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world;  I  am  not  making  fun  of  you,  my 
dear  Robert.  You  are  not  a  baby,  you  know!  Come,  go  and  get 
ready  for  a  swim ;  I  will  go  into  my  dressing-tent  and  do  the  same." 

She  saluted  me  with  her  hand,  as  she  lifted  one  of  the  sides  of 
the  tent,  with  unmistakable  coquetry.  What  a  strange  mystery 
is  the  heart  of  woman! 

I  sought  out  a  spot  shaded  by  the  bushes,  thinking  over  these 
things;  but  it  was  not  long  before  I  had  got  into  my  bathing  cos- 
tume. I  thought  of  you,  my  pious  friend,  as  I  was  buttoning  the 
neck  and  the  wrists  of  this  conventional  garment.  How  many 
times  have  you  not  helped  me  to  execute  this  little  task  about 
which  I  was  so  awkward.  Briefly,  I  entered  the  water  and  was 
about  to  strike  out  when  the  sound  of  the  marchioness's  voice 
assailed  my  ears.  She  was  talking  with  her  maid  inside  the  tent. 
I  stopped  and  listened;  not  out  of  guilty  curiosity,  I  can  assure 
you,  but  out  of  a  sincere  wish  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
that  soul. 

"No,  no,  Julie,"  the  marchioness  was  saying.  "No,  no;  I 
won't  hear  you  say  any  more  about  that  frightful  waterproof  cap. 
The  water  gets  inside  and  does  not  come  out.  Twist  up  my  hair 
in  a  net;  nothing  more  is  required." 

"Your  ladyship's  hair  will  get  wet." 

"Then  you  can  powder  it.  Nothing  is  better  for  drying  than 
powder.  And  so,  I  shall  wear  my  light  blue  dress  this  evening; 

Till 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

blond  powder  will  go  with  it  exactly.  My  child,  you  are  becom- 
ing foolish.  I  told  you  to  shorten  my  bathing  costume,  by  taking 
it  up  at  the  knees.  Just  see  what  it  looks  like!" 

"I  was  fearful  that  your  ladyship  would  find  it  too  tight  for 
swimming." 

"Tight!  Then  why  have  you  taken  it  in  three  good  inches  just 
here?  See  how  it  wrinkles  up;  it  is  ridiculous,  don't  you  see  it, 
my  girl,  don't  you  see  it?" 

The  sides  of  the  tent  were  moved;  and  I  guessed  that  my 
cousin  was  somewhat  impatiently  assuming  the  costume  in  ques- 
tion, in  order  the  better  to  point  out  its  defects  to  her  maid. 

"I  don't  want  to  look  as  if  I  were  wound  up  in  a  sheet,  but  yet 
I  want  to  be  left  freedom  of  action.  You  can  not  get  it  into  your 
head,  Julie,  that  this  material  will  not  stretch.  You  see  now  that 
I  stoop  a  little — Ah!  you  see  it  at  last,  that's  well." 

Weak  minds!  Is  it  not  true,  my  pious  friend,  that  there  are 
those  who  can  be  absorbed  by  such  small  matters?  I  find  these 
preoccupations  to  be  so  frivolous  that  I  was  pained  at  being  even 
the  involuntary  recipient  of  them,  and  I  splashed  the  water  with 
my  hands  to  announce  my  presence  and  put  a  stop  to  a  conversa- 
tion which  shocked  me. 

"I  am  coming  to  you,  Robert;  get  into  the  water.  Has  your 
sister  arrived  yet?"  said  my  cousin,  raising  her  voice;  then  softly, 
and  addressing  her  maid,  she  added:  "Yes,  of  course,  lace  it 
tightly.  I  want  support." 

One  side  of  the  tent  was  raised,  and  my  relative  appeared.  I 
know  not  why  I  shuddered,  as  if  at  the  approach  of  some  danger. 
She  advanced  two  or  three  steps  on  the  fine  sand,  drawing  from 
her  fingers  as  she  did  so,  the  gold  rings  she  was  accustomed  to 
wear;  then  she  stopped,  handed  them  to  Julie,  and,  with  a  move- 
ment which  I  can  see  now,  but  which  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
describe  to  you,  kicked  off  into  the  grass  the  slippers,  with  red 
bows,  which  enveloped  her  feet. 

She  had  only  taken  three  paces,  but  it  sufficed  to  enable  me  to 
remark  the  singularity  of  her  gait.  She  walked  with  short,  timid 
steps,  her  bare  arms  close  to  her  sides. 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

She  had  divested  herself  of  all  the  outward  tokens  of  a  woman, 
save  the  tresses  of  her  hair,  which  were  rolled  up  in  a  net.  As 
for  the  rest,  she  was  a  comical-looking  young  man,  at  once  slender 
yet  afflicted  by  an  unnatural  plumpness,  one  of  those  beings  who 
appear  to  us  in  dreams,  and  in  the  delirium  of  fever,  one  of  those 
creatures  toward  whom  an  unknown  power  attracts  us,  and  who 
resemble  angels  too  nearly  not  to  be  demons. 

"Well,  Robert,  of  what  are  you  thinking ?  Give  me  your 
hand  and  help  me  to  get  into  the  water." 

She  dipped  the  toes  of  her  arched  foot  into  the  pellucid  stream. 

"This  always  gives  one  a  little  shock,  but  the  water  ought  to  be 
delightful  to-day,"  said  she.  "  But  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ? 
— your  hand  shakes.  You  are  a  chilly  mortal,  cousin." 

The  fact  is,  I  was  not  trembling  either  through  fear  or  cold; 
but  on  approaching  the  Marchioness,  the  sharp  perfume  which 
emanated  from  her  hair  went  to  my  head,  and  with  my  delicate 
nerves  you  will  readily  understand  that  I  was  about  to  faint.  I 
mastered  this  sensation,  however.  She  took  a  firm  grip  of  my 
hand,  as  one  would  clasp  the  knob  of  a  cane  or  the  banister  of 
a  stair,  and  we  advanced  into  the  stream  side  by  side. 

As  we  advanced  the  stream  became  deeper.  The  Marchioness, 
as  the  water  rose  higher,  gave  vent  to  low  cries  of  fear  resembling 
the  hiss  of  a  serpent;  then  she  broke  out  into  ringing  bursts  of 
laughter,  and  drew  closer  and  closer  to  me.  Finally,  she  stopped, 
and  turning  she  looked  straight  into  my  eyes.  I  felt  then  that 
moment  was  a  solemn  one.  I  thought  a  hidden  precipice  was 
concealed  at  my  feet,  my  heart  throbbed  as  if  it  would  burst,  and 
my  head  seemed  to  be  on  fire. 

"Come  now,  teach  me  to  float  on  my  back,  Robert.  Legs 
straight  and  extended,  arms  close  to  the  body,  that's  the  way,  is 
it  not?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  cousin,  and  move  your  hands  gently  under  you." 

"Very  good;  here  goes,  then.  One,  two,  three — off!  Oh,  what 
a  little  goose  I  am,  I'm  afraid!  Oh  cousin,  support  me,  just  a 
little  bit." 

That  was  the  moment  when  I  ought  to  have  said  to  her:  "No, 

[13] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Madame,  I  am  not  the  man  to  support  coquettes,  and  I  will  not." 
But  I  did  not  dare  say  that;  my  tongue  remained  silent,  and  I 
passed  my  arm  round  the  Marchioness's  waist,  in  order  to  support 
her  more  easily. 

Alas!  I  had  made  a  mistake;  perhaps  an  irreparable  one. 

In  that  supreme  moment  it  was  but  too  true  that  I  adored  her 
seductive  charms.  Let  me  cut  it  short.  When  I  held  her  thus  it 
seemed  to  me  that  all  the  blood  in  my  body  rushed  back  to  my 
heart — a  deadly  thrill  ran  through  every  limb — from  shame  and 
indignation,  no  doubt;  my  vision  became  obscure;  it  seemed  as 
if  my  soul  was  leaving  my  body,  and  I  fell  forward  fainting,  and 
dragged  her  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  water  in  a  mortal  clutch. 

I  heard  a  loud  cry.  I  felt  her  arms  interlace  my  neck,  her 
clenched  fingers  sink  deep  into  my  flesh,  and  all  was  over.  I  had 
lost  consciousness. 

When  I  came  to  myself  I  was  lying  on  the  grass.  Julie  was 
chafing  my  hands,  and  the  Marchioness,  in  her  bathing-dress, 
which  was  streaming  with  water,  was  holding  a  vinaigrette  to 
my  nose.  She  looked  at  me  severely,  although  in  her  glance 
there  was  a  shade  of  pleased  satisfaction,  the  import  of  which 
escaped  me. 

"Baby!  you  great  baby!"  said  she. 

Now  that  you  know  all  the  facts,  my  pious  friend,  bestow  on 
me  the  favor  of  your  counsel,  and  thank  heaven  that  you  live  re- 
mote from  scenes  like  these. 

With  heart  and  soul, 

Your  sincere  friend, 
ROBERT  DE  K DE  C . 


[14] 


CHAPTER  III 


MADAME  DE  K. 

T  is  possible  that  you  know  Madame 
de  K.;  if  this  be  so,  I  congratulate 
you,  for  she  is  a  very  remarkable  per- 
son. Her  face  is  pretty,  but  they  do 
not  say  of  her,  "Ah,  what  a  pretty 
woman!"  They  say:  "Madame  de 
K.  ?  Ah !  to  be  sure,  a  fine  woman ! ' ' 
Do  you  perceive  the  difference?  it 
is  easy  to  grasp  it.  That  which  charms  in  her  is  less 
what  one  sees  than  what  one  guesses  at.  Ah!  to  be 
sure,  a  fine  woman !  That  is  what  is  said  after  dinner 
when  we  have  dined  at  her  house,  and  when  her  hus- 
band, who  unfortunately  is  in  bad  health  and  does  not 
smoke,  has  gone  to  fetch  cigars  from  his  desk.  It  is 
said  in  a  low  tone,  as  though  in  confidence;  but  from 
this  affected  reserve,  it  is  easy  to  read  conviction  on  the 
part  of  each  of  the  guests.  The  ladies  in  the  drawing- 
room  do  not  suspect  the  charming  freedom  which  char- 
acterizes the  gossip  of  the  gentlemen  when  they  have 
gone  into  the  smoking-room  to  puff  their  cigars  over  a 
cup  of  coffee. 

"Yes,  yes,  she  is  a  very  fine  woman." 
"Ah!  the  deuce,  expansive  beauty,  opulent." 
"But  poor  De  K.  makes  me  feel  anxious;   he  does 

['Si 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

not  seem  to  get  any  better.    Does  it  not  alarm  you, 
Doctor?" 

Every  one  smiles  sub  rosa  at  the  idea  that  poor  De 
K.,  who  has  gone  to  fetch  cigars,  pines  away  visibly, 
while  his  wife  is  so  well. 

"He  is  foolish;  he  works  too  hard,  as  I  have  told 
him.  His  position  at  the  ministry — thanks,  I  never 
take  sugar." 

"  But,  really,  it  is  serious,  for  after  all  he  is  not  strong," 
ventures  a  guest,  gravely,  biting  his  lips  meanwhile  to 
keep  from  laughing. 

"I  think  even  that  within  the  last  year  her  beauty 
has  developed,"  says  a  little  gentleman,  stirring  his 
coffee. 

"De  K.'s  beauty?    I  never  could  see  it." 

"I  don't  say  that." 

"Excuse  me,  you  did;    is  it  not  so,  Doctor?" 

"Forsooth!"  "How  now!  Come,  let  us  make  the 
distinction.'"  "Ha,  ha,  ha!"  And  there  is  a  burst  of 
that  hearty  laughter  which  men  affect  to  assist  diges- 
tion. The  ice  is  broken,  they  draw  closer  to  each  other 
and  continue  in  low  tones: 

"She  has  a  fine  neck!  for  when  she  turned  just  now 
it  looked  as  if  it  had  been  sculptured." 

"Her  neck,  her  neck!  but  what  of  her  hands,  her 
arms  and  her  shoulders!  Did  you  see  her  at  Le"on's 
ball  a  fortnight  ago?  A  queen,  my  dear  fellow,  a 
Roman  empress.  Neck,  shoulders,  arms— 

"And  all  the  rest,"  hazards  some  one,  looking  down 
into  his  cup.  All  laugh  heartily,  and  the  good  De  K. 
comes  in  with  a  box  of  cigars  which  look  exceptional. 

[16] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"Here  you  are,  my  friends,"  he  says,  coughing 
slightly,  "but  let  me  recommend  you  to  smoke  care- 
fully." 

I  have  often  dined  with  my  friend  De  K.,  and  I  have 
always,  or  almost  always,  heard  a  conversation  similar 
to  the  preceding.  But  I  must  avow  that  the  evening 
on  which  I  heard  the  impertinent  remark  of  this  gen- 
tleman I  was  particularly  shocked;  first,  because  De 
K.  is  my  friend,  and  in  the  second  place  because  I 
can  not  endure  people  who  speak  of  that  of  which 
they  know  nothing.  I  make  bold  to  say  that  I  alone  in 
Paris  understand  this  matter  to  the  bottom.  Yes,  yes, 
I  alone;  and  the  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  Paul  and 
his  brother  are  in  England ;  Ernest  is  a  consul  in  Amer- 
ica; as  for  Leon,  he  is  at  Hyeres  in  his  little  sub-pre- 
fecture. You  see,  therefore,  that  in  truth  I  am  the 
only  one  in  Paris  who  can 

"But  hold,  Monsieur  Z.,  you  must  be  joking.  Ex- 
plain yourself;  come  to  the  point.  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  Madame  de  K. — oh!  dear  me!  but  that  is 
.most  inconvenant! " 

Nothing,  nothing!  I  am  foolish.  Let  us  suppose 
that  I  had  not  spoken,  ladies;  let  us  speak  of  some- 
thing else.  How  could  the  idea  have  got  into  my  head 
of  saying  anything  about  "all  the  rest"?  Let  us  talk 
of  something  else. 

It  was  a  real  spring  morning,  the  rain  fell  hi  torrents 
and  the  north  wind  blew  furiously,  when  the  damsel, 
more  dead  than  alive 

The  fact  is,  I  feel  I  can  not  get  out  of  it.  It  will 
be  better  to  tell  all.  Only  swear  to  me  to  be  dis- 

[17] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

creet.     On  your  word   of   honor?    Well,  then,   here 
goes. 

I  am,  I  repeat,  the  only  man  in  Paris  who  can  speak 
from  knowledge  of  "all  the  rest"  in  regard  to  Madame 
deK. 

Some  years  ago — but  do  not  let  us  anticipate — I  say, 
some  years  ago  I  had  an  intimate  friend  at  whose 
house  we  met  many  evenings.  In  summer  the  windows 
were  left  open,  and  we  used  to  sit  in  armchairs  and 
chat  of  affairs  by  the  light  of  our  cigars.  Now,  one 
evening,  when  we  were  talking  of  fishing — all  these 
details  are  still  fresh  in  my  memory — we  heard  the 
sound  of  a  powerful  harpsichord,  and  soon  followed  the 
harsh  notes  of  a  voice  more  vigorous  than  harmonious, 
I  must  admit. 

"Aha!  she  has  altered  her  hours,"  said  Paul,  re- 
garding one  of  the  windows  of  the  house  opposite. 

"Who  has  changed  her  hours,  my  dear  fellow?" 

"My  neighbor.  A  robust  voice,  don't  you  think  so? 
Usually  she  practises  in  the  morning,  and  I  like  that 
better,  for  it  is  the  time  I  go  out  for  a  walk." 

Instinctively  I  glanced  toward  the  lighted  window, 
and  through  the  drawn  curtains  I  distinctly  perceived 
a  woman,  dressed  in  white,  with  her  hair  loose,  and 
swaying  before  her  instrument  like  a  person  conscious 
that  she  was  alone  and  responding  to  her  own  inspira- 
tions. 

"My  Fernand,  go,  seek  glo-o-o-ry,"  she  was  singing 
at  the  top  of  her  voice.  The  singing  appeared  to  me 
mediocre,  but  the  songstress  in  her  peignoir  inter- 
ested me  much. 

[18] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"Gentlemen,"  said  I,  "it  appears  to  me  there  is  be- 
hind that  frail  tissue" — I  alluded  to  the  curtain — "a 
very  handsome  woman.  Put  out  your  cigars,  if  you 
please;  their  light  might  betray  our  presence  and 
embarrass  the  fair  singer." 

The  cigars  were  at  once  dropped — the  window  was 
even  almost  completely  closed  for  greater  security — and 
we  began  to  watch. 

This  was  not,  I  know,  quite  discreet,  but,  as  the 
devil  willed  it,  we  were  young  bachelors,  all  five  of  us, 
and  then,  after  all,  dear  reader,  would  not  you  have 
done  the  same? 

When  the  song  was  concluded,  the  singer  rose.  .It 
was  very  hot  and  her  garment  must  have  been  very 
thin,  for  the  light,  which  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
room,  shone  through  the  fabric.  It  was  one  of  those 
long  robes  which  fall  to  the  feet,  and  which  custom  has 
reserved  for  night  wear.  The  upper  part  is  often 
trimmed  with  lace,  the  sleeves  are  wide,  the  folds  are 
long  and  flowing,  and  usually  give  forth  a  perfume  of 
ambergris  or  violet.  But  perhaps  you  know  this  gar- 
ment as  well  as  I.  The  fair  one  drew  near  the  look- 
ing-glass, and  it  seemed  to  us  that  she  was  contem- 
plating her  face;  then  she  raised  her  hands  in  the  air, 
and,  in  the  graceful  movement  she  made,  the  sleeve, 
which  was  unbuttoned  and  very  loose,  slipped  from  her 
beautifully  rounded  arm,  the  outline  of  which  we  dis- 
tinctly perceived. 

"The  devil!"  said  Paul,  in  a  stifled  voice,  but  he 
could  say  no  more. 

The  songstress  then  gathered  up  her  hair,  which 

[19] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

hung  very  low,  in  her  two  hands  and  twisted  it  in  the 
air,  just  as  the  washerwomen  do.  Her  head,  which  we 
saw  in  profile,  inclined  a  little  forward,  and  her  shoul- 
ders, which  the  movement  of  her  arms  threw  back,  pre- 
sented a  more  prominent  and  clear  outline. 

"Marble,  Parian  marble!"  muttered  Paul.  "O 
Cypris!  Cytherea!  Paphia!" 

"Be  quiet,  you  donkey!" 

It  really  seemed  as  if  the  flame  of  the  candle  under- 
stood our  appreciation  and  ministered  specially  to  our 
admiration.  Placed  behind  the  fair  songstress,  it  il- 
luminated her  so  perfectly  that  the  garment  with  the 
long  folds  resembled  those  thin  vapors  which  veil  the 
horizon  without  hiding  it,  and  in  a  word,  the  most  in- 
quisitive imagination,  disarmed  by  so  much  courtesy, 
was  ready  to  exclaim,  "That  is  enough!" 

Soon  the  fair  one  moved  forward  toward  her  bed, 
sat  down  in  a  very  low  armchair,  in  which  she  stretched 
herself  out  at  her  ease,  and  remained  for  some  moments, 
with  her  hands  clasped  over  her  head  and  her  limbs 
extended.  Just  then  midnight  struck;  we  saw  her  take 
her  right  leg  slowly  and  cross  it  over  her  left,  when  we 
perceived  that  she  had  not  yet  removed  her  shoes  and 
stockings. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  asking  any  more  about  it? 
These  recollections  trouble  me,  and,  although  they 
have  fixed  themselves  in  my  mind — very  firmly  indeed, 
I  can  assure  you — I  feel  an  embarrassment  mingled 
with  modesty  at  relating  all  to  you  at  length.  Besides, 
at  the  moment  she  turned  down  the  clothes,  and  pre- 
pared, to  get  into  bed,  the  light  went  out. 

[20] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

On  the  morrow,  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
we  all  five  again  found  ourselves  at  Paul's,  four  of  us 
with  opera-glasses  in  our  pockets.  As  on  the  previous 
evening,  the  fair  songstress  sat  down  at  her  piano, 
then  proceeded  slowly  to  make  her  night  toilette. 
There  was  the  same  grace,  the  same  charm,  but  when 
we  came  to  the  fatal  moment  at  which  on  the  preced- 
ing night  the  candle  had  gone  out,  a  fault  thrill  ran 
through  us  all.  To  tell  the  truth,  for  my  part,  I  was 
nervous.  Heaven,  very  fortunately,  was  now  on  our 
side;  the  candle  continued  to  burn.  The  young  wo- 
man then,  with  her  charming  hand,  the  plump  outlines 
of  which  we  could  easily  distinguish,  smoothed  the 
pillow,  patted  it,  arranged  it  with  a  thousand  caress- 
ing precautions  in  which  the  thought  was  suggested, 
"With  what  happiness  shall  I  now  go  and  bury  my 
head  in  it!" 

Then  she  smoothed  down  the  little  wrinkles  in  the 
bed,  the  contact  with  which  might  have  irritated  her, 
and,  raising  herself  on  her  right  arm,  like  a  horseman, 
about  to  get  into  the  saddle,  we  saw  her  left  knee, 
smooth  and  shining  as  marble,  slowly  bury  itself.  We 
seemed  to  hear  a  kind  of  creaking,  but  this  creaking 
sounded  joyful.  The  sight  was  brief,  too  brief,  alas! 
and  it  was  in  a  species  of  delightful  confusion  that  we 
perceived  a  well-rounded  limb,  dazzlingly  white,  strug- 
gling in  the  silk  of  the  quilt.  At  length  everything  be- 
came quiet  again,  and  it  was  as  much  as  we  could  do 
to  make  out  a  smooth,  rose-tinted  little  foot  which,  not 
being  sleepy,  still  lingered  outside  and  fidgeted  with 
the  silken  covering. 

[21] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Delightful  souvenir  of  my  lively  youth!  My  pen 
splutters,  my  paper  seems  to  blush  to  the  color  of  that 
used  by  the  orange-sellers.  I  believe  I  have  said  too 
much. 

I  learned  some  time  afterward  that  my  friend  De  K. 
was  about  to  be  married,  and,  singularly  enough,  was 
going  to  wed  this  beautiful  creature  with  whom  I  was 
so  well  acquainted. 

"A  charming  woman!"  I  exclaimed  one  day. 

"You  know  her,  then?"  said  someone. 

"I?    No,  not  the  least  in  the  world." 

"But?" 

"Yes — no,  let  me  see;  I  have  seen  her  once  at  high 
mass." 

"She  is  not  very  pretty,"  some  one  remarked  to  me. 

"No,  not  her  face,"  I  rejoined,  and  added  to  myself, 
"No,  not  her  face,  but  all  the  rest!" 

It  is  none  the  less  true  that  for  some  time  past  this 
secret  has  been  oppressing  me,  and,  though  I  decided 
to-day  to  reveal  it  to  you,  it  was  because  it  seems  to 
me  that  to  do  so  would  quiet  my  conscience. 

But,  for  Heaven's  sake,  let  me  entreat  you,  do  not 
noise  abroad  the  affair! 


[22] 


CHAPTER  IV 

SOUVENIRS  OF  LENT 

• 

'HE  faithful  are  flocking  up  the  steps 
of  the  temple;  spring  toilettes  al- 
ready glitter  in  the  sun;  trains  sweep 
the  dust  with  their  long  flowing  folds; 
feathers  and  ribbons  flutter;  the  bell 
chimes  solemnly,  while  carriages  keep 
arriving  at  a  trot,  depositing  upon  the 
pavement  all  that  is  most  pious  and 
most  noble  in  the  Faubourg,  then  draw  up  in  line  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  square. 

Be  quick,  elbow  your  way  through  the  crowd  if  you 
want  a  good  place;  the  Abbe  Gelon  preaches  to-day 
on  abstinence,  and  when  the  Abbe  Gelon  preaches  it 
is  as  if  Patti  were  singing. 

Enter  Madame,  pushes  the  triple  door,  which  re- 
closes  heavily,  brushes  with  rapid  fingers  the  holy- 
water  sprinkler  which  that  pious  old  man  holds  out, 
and  carefully  makes  a  graceful  little  sign  of  the  cross 
so  as  not  to  spot  her  ribbons. 

Do  you  hear  these  discreet  and  aristocratic  whisper- 
ings? 

"Good  morning,  my  dear." 

"Good  morning,  dear.  It  is  always  on  abstinence 
that  he  preaches,  is  it  not?  Have  you  a  seat?" 

[23] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"Yes,  yes,  come  with  me.  You  have  got  on  your 
famous  bonnet,  I  see?" 

"Yes;  do  you  like  it?  It  is  a  little  showy,  is  it  not? 
What  a  multitude  of  people!  Where  is  your  hus- 
band?" 

"Showy!  Oh,  no,  it  is  splendid.  My  husband  is  in 
the  churchwarden's  pew;  he  left  before  me;  he  is  be- 
coming a  fanatic — he  speaks  of  lunching  on  radishes 
and  lentils." 

"That  ought  to  be  very  consoling  to  you." 

"Don't  mention  it.  Come  with  me.  See;  there  are 
Ernestine  and  Louise.  Poor  Louise's  nose,  always  the 
same;  who  would  believe  that  she  drinks  nothing 
stronger  than  water?" 

The  ladies  push  their  way  among  the  chairs, 
some  of  which  they  upset  with  the  greatest  un- 
concern. 

Arrived  at  their  places  they  sink  down  on  their 
knees,  and,  moist-eyed  and  full  of  feeling,  cast  a  look 
of  veiled  adoration  toward  the  high  altar,  then  hide 
their  faces  with  their  gloved  hands. 

For  a  very  few  minutes  they  gracefully  deprecate 
themselves  in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord,  then,  taking  their 
seats,  coquettishly  arrange  the  immense  bows  of  their 
bonnet-strings,  scan  the  assembly  through  a  gold  eye- 
glass, with  the  little  finger  turning  up;  finally,  while 
smoothing  down  the  satin  folds  of  a  dress  difficult  to 
keep  in  place,  they  scatter,  right  and  left,  charming 
little  recognitions  and  delightful  little  smiles. 

"Are  you  comfortable,  dear?" 

"Quite,  thanks.  Do  you  see  in  front  there,  between 

[24] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

the  two  tapers,  Louise  and  Madame  de  C ?  Is  it 

allowable  in  any  one  to  come  to  church  got  up  like 
that?" 

"Oh!  I  have  never  believed  much  in  the  piety  of 

Madame  de  C .  You  know  her  history — the  story 

of  the  screen?  I  will  tell  it  you  later.  Ah!  there  is 
the  verger." 

The  verger  shows  his  bald  head  in  the  pulpit  of 
truth.  He  arranges  the  seat,  adjusts  the  kneeling-stool, 
then  withdraws  and  allows  the  Abbe"  Gelon,  who  is 
somewhat  pale  from  Lenten  fasting,  but  striking,  as  he 
always  is,  in  dignity,  elegance,  and  unction.  A  momen- 
tary flutter  passes  through  the  congregation,  then  they 
settle  down  comfortably.  The  noise  dies  away,  and 
all  eyes  are  eagerly  looking  toward  the  face  of  the 
preacher.  With  his  eyes  turned  to  heaven,  the  latter 
stands  upright  and  motionless;  a  light  from  above  may 
be  divined  in  his  inspired  look;  his  beautiful,  white 
hands,  encircled  at  the  wrists  by  fine  lace,  are  care- 
lessly placed  on  the  red  velvet  cushion  of  the  pulpit. 
He  waits  a  few  moments,  coughs  twice,  unfolds  his 
handkerchief,  deposits  his  square  hat  in  a  corner,  and, 
bending  forward,  lets  fall  from  his  lips  in  those  sweet 
slow,  persuasive  tones,  by  which  he  is  known,  the  first 
words  of  his  sermon,  "Ladies!" 

With  this  single  word  he  has  already  won  all  hearts. 
Slowly  he  casts  over  his  audience  a  mellow  glance, 
which  penetrates  and  attracts;  then,  having  uttered 
a  few  Latin  words  which  he  has  the  tact  to  translate 
quickly  into  French,  he  continues: 

"What  is  it  to  abstain?  Why  should  we  abstain? 

[25] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

How  should  we  abstain  ?  Those  are  the  three  points, 
ladies,  I  shall  proceed  to  discuss." 

He  blows  his  nose,  coughs;  a  holy  thrill  stirs  every 
heart.  How  will  he  treat  this  magnificent  subject? 
Let  us  listen. 

Is  it  not  true,  Madame,  that  your  heart  is  piously 
stirred,  and  that  at  this  moment  you  feel  an  actual 
thirst  for  abstinence  and  mortification? 

The  holy  precincts  are  bathed  in  a  soft  obscurity, 
similar  to  that  of  your  boudoir,  and  inducing  revery. 

I  know  not  how  much  of  the  ineffable  and  of  the 
vaguely  exhilarating  penetrates  your  being.  But  the 
voice  of  this  handsome  and  venerated  old  man  has, 
amidst  the  deep  silence,  something  deliciously  heavenly 
about  it.  Mysterious  echoes  repeat  from  the  far  end 
of  the  temple  each  of  his  words,  and  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  sanctuary  the  golden  candlesticks  glitter  like  pre- 
cious stones.  The  old  stained-glass  windows  with 
their  symbolic  figures  become  suddenly  illuminated,  a 
flood  of  light  and  sunshine  spreads  through  the  church 
like  a  sheet  of  fire.  Are  the  heavens  opening?  Is  the 
Spirit  from  on  high  descending  among  us  ? 

While  lost  in  pious  revery,  which  soothes  and  lulls, 
one  gazes  with  ecstasy  on  the  fanciful  details  of  the 
sculptures  which  vanish  in  the  groined  roof  above,  and 
on  the  quaint  pipes  of  the  organ  with  its  hundred 
voices.  The  beliefs  of  childhood  piously  inculcated  in 
your  heart  suddenly  reawaken;  a  vague  perfume  of 
incense  again  penetrates  the  air.  The  stone  pillars 
shoot  up  to  infinite  heights,  and  from  these  celestial 
arches  depends  the  golden  lamp  which  sways  to  and 

[26] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

fro  in  space,  diffusing  its  eternal  light.  Truly,  God  is 
great. 

By  degrees  the  sweet  tones  of  the  preacher  enrapt- 
ure one  more  and  more,  and  the  sense  of  his  words 
are  lost;  and,  listening  to  the  divine  murmur  of  that 
saint-like  voice,  your  eyes,  like  those  of  a  child  falling 
asleep  in  the  bosom  of  the  Creator,  close. 

You  do  not  go  to  sleep,  but  your  head  inclines  for- 
ward, the  ethereal  light  surrounds  you,  and  your  soul, 
delighting  in  the  uncertain,  plunges  into  celestial  space, 
and  loses  itself  in  infinity. 

What  a  sweet  and  holily  intoxicating  sensation,  a 
delicious  ecstasy!  Nevertheless,  there  are  those  who 
smile  at  this  religious  mise-en-sc&ne,  these  pomps  and 
splendors,  this  celestial  music,  which  soothes  the  nerves 
and  thrills  the  brain!  Pity  on  these  scoffers  who  do 
not  comprehend  the  ineffable  delight  of  being  able 
to  open  at  will  the  gates  of  Paradise  to  themselves,  and 
to  become,  at  odd  moments,  one  with  the  angels!  But 
what  purpose  does  it  serve  to  speak  of  the  faithless 
and  of  their  harmless  smiles?  As  the  Abbe  Gelon  has 
in  his  inimitable  manner  observed,  "The  heart  is  a 
fortress,  incessantly  assailed  by  the  spirit  of  darkness." 

The  idea  of  a  constant  struggle  with  this  powerful 
being  has  something  about  it  that  adds  tenfold  to  our 
strength  and  flatters  our  vanity.  What,  alone  in  your 
fortress,  Madame;  alone  with  the  spirit  of  darkness. 

But  hush!  the  Abbe  Gelon  is  finishing  in  a  quivering 
and  fatigued  voice.  His  right  hand  traces  in  the  air  the 
sign  of  peace.  Then  he  wipes  his  humid  forehead,  his 
eyes  sparkle  with  divine  light,  he  descends  the  narrow 

[27] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

stairs,  and  we  hear  on  the  pavement  the  regular  taps 
of  the  rod  of  the  verger,  who  is  recoriducting  him  to 
the  vestry. 

"Was  he  not  splendid,  dear?" 

"Excellent!  when  he  said,  'That  my  eyes  might 
close  forever,  if  .  .  .  '  you  remember?" 

"Superb!  and  further  on:  'Yes,  ladies,  you  are  co- 
quettes.' He  told  us  some  hard  truths;  he  speaks 
admirably." 

"Admirably!    He  is  divine!" 

It  is  four  o'clock,  the  church  is  plunged  in  shadow 
and  silence.  The  confused  rumble  of  the  vehicles 
without  hardly  penetrates  this  dwelling  of  prayer,  and 
the  creak  of  one's  boots,  echoing  in  the  distance,  is  the 
only  human  noise  which  ruffles  the  deep  calm. 

However,  in  proportion  as  we  advance,  we  perceive 
in  the  chapels  groups  of  the  faithful,  kneeling,  motion- 
less and  silent.  In  viewing  the  despair  that  their  atti- 
tude appears  to  express,  we  are  overwhelmed  with  sad- 
ness and  uneasiness.  Is  it  an  appeal  for  the  damned  ? 

The  aspects  of  one  of  these  chapels  is  peculiar.  A 
hundred  or  a  hundred  and  fifty  ladies,  almost  buried  in 
silk  and  velvet,  are  crowded  devoutly  about  the  confes- 
sional. A  sweet  scent  of  violets  and  vervain  permeates 
the  vicinity,  and  one  halts,  in  spite  of  one's  self,  in  the 
presence  of  this  large  display  of  elegance. 

From  each  of  the  two  cells  adjoining  the  confessional 
shoot  out  the  folds  of  a  rebellious  skirt,  for  the  peni- 
tent, held  fast  at  the  waist,  has  been  able  to  get  only 
half  of  her  form  into  the  narrow  space.  However,  her 

[28] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

head  can  be  distinguished  moving  in  the  shadow,  and 
we  can  guess  from  the  contrite  movements  of  her  white 
feather  that  her  forehead  is  bowed  by  reason  of  re- 
monstrance and  repentance. 

Hardly  has  she  concluded  her  little  story  when  a 
dozen  of  her  neighbors  rush  forward  to  replace  her. 
This  eagerness  is  quite  explicable,  for  this  chapel  is 
the  one  in  which  the  Abbe  Gelon  hears  confessions,  and 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  when  the  Abbe  Gelon  confesses 
it  is  the  same  as  if  he  were  preaching — there  is  a  crowd. 

The  good  Abbe  confesses  all  these  ladies,  and,  with 
angelic  devotion,  remains  shut  up  for  hours  in  this 
dark,  narrow,  suffocating  box,  through  the  grating  of 
which  two  penitents  are  continually  whispering  their 
sins. 

The  dear  Abbe !  the  most  likable  thing  about  him  is 
that  he  is  not  long  over  the  business.  He  knows  how 
to  get  rid  of  useless  details;  he  perceives,  with  subtle 
instinct  and  a  sureness  of  vision  that  spares  you  a  thou- 
sand embarrassments,  the  condition  of  a  soul,  so  that, 
besides  being  a  man  of  intelligence  and  of  the  world, 
he  renders  the  repetition  of  those  little  weaknesses,  of 
which  he  has  whispered  the  one  half  to  you,  almost 
agreeable. 

In  coming  to  him  with  one's  little  burden  of  guilt, 
one  feels  somewhat  embarrassed,  but  while  one  is  hesi- 
tating about  telling  him  all,  he,  with  a  discreet  and 
skilful  hand,  disencumbers  one  of  it  rapidly,  examines 
the  contents,  smiles  or  consoles,  and  the  confession  is 
made  without  one  having  uttered  a  single  word;  so 
that  after  all  is  over  the  penitent  exclaims,  prostrating 

[29] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

one's  self  before  God,  "But,  Lord,  I  was  pure,  pure 
as  the  lily,  and  yet  how  uneasy  I  was!" 

Even  when  he  assumes  the  sacerdotal  habit  and 
ceases  to  be  a  man,  and  speaks  in  the  name  of  God,  the 
tones  of  his  voice,  the  refinement  of  his  look,  reveal  in- 
nate distinction  and  that  spotless  courtesy  which  can 
not  harm  even  a  minister  of  God,  and  which  one  must 
cultivate  on  this  side  of  the  Rue  du  Bac. 

If  God  wills  that  there  must  be  a  Faubourg  St. -Ger- 
main in  the  world — and  it  can  not  be  denied  that  He 
does — is  it  not  proper  that  He  should  give  us  a  min- 
ister who  speaks  our  language  and  understands  our 
weaknesses?  Nothing  is  more  obvious,  and  I  really 
do  not  comprehend  some  of  these  ladies  who  talk  to  me 
about  the  Abbe  Brice.  Not  that  I  wish  to  speak  ill  of 
the  good  Abbe,  for  this  is  neither  the  time  nor  the  place 
for  it;  he  is  a  holy  man,  but  his  sanctity  is  a  little  bour- 
geois and  needs  polish. 

With  him  one  has  to  dot  one's  z's;  he  is  dull  in  per- 
ception, or  does  not  perceive  at  all. 

Acknowledge  a  peccadillo,  and  his  brows  knit,  he 
must  know  the  hour,  the  moment,  the  antecedents;  he 
examines,  he  probes,  he  weighs,  and  finishes  his  thou- 
sand questions  by  being  indiscreet  and  almost  improp- 
er. Is  there  not,  even  in  the  holy  mission  of  the  priest, 
a  way  of  being  politely  severe,  and  of  acting  the  gentle- 
man to  people  well  born? 

The  Abbe*  Brice — and  there  is  no  reason  why  I 
should  conceal  it — smells  of  the  stable,  which  must  be 
prejudicial  to  him.  He  is  slightly  Republican,  too, 
wears  clumsy  boots,  has  awful  nails,  and  when  he  gets 

[30] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

new  gloves,  twice  a  year,  his  fingers  stand  out  stiff  and 
separate. 

I  do  not,  I  would  have  you  remark,  deny  his  admir- 
able virtues;  but  say  what  you  like,  you  will  never 
get  a  woman  of  fashion  to  confide  her  "little  affairs" 
to  a  farmer's  son,  and  address  him  as  "Father."  Mat- 
ters must  not  be  carried  the  length  of  absurdity;  be- 
sides, this  Abbe  Brice  always  smells  detestably  of  snuff. 

He  confesses  all  sorts  of  people,  and  you  will  agree 
that  it  is  not  pleasant  to  have  one's  maid  or  one's  cook 
for  one's  vis-a-vis  at  the  confessional. 

There  is  not  a  woman  who  understands  Christian 
humility  better  than  yourself,  dear  Madame;  but  all  the 
same  you  are  not  accustomed  to  travel  in  an  omnibus. 
You  may  be  told  that  in  heaven  you  will  only  be 
too  happy  to  call  your  coachman  "Brother,"  and  to 
say  to  Sarah  Jane,  "Sister,"  but  these  worthy  folk  shall 
have  first  passed  through  purgatory  and  fire  purifies 
everything.  Again,  what  is  there  to  assure  us  that 
Sarah  Jane  will  go  to  heaven,  since  you  yourself,  dear 
Madame,  are  not  so  sure  of  entering  there  ? 

It  is  hence  quite  well  understood  why  the  Abbe 
Gelon's  chapel  is  crowded.  .  If  a  little  whispering  goes 
on,  it  is  because  they  have  been  waiting  three  long 
hours,  and  because  everybody  knows  one  another. 

All  the  ladies,  you  may  be  sure,  are  there. 

"Make  a  little  room  for  me,  dear,"  whispers  a  new- 
comer, edging  her  way  through  trains,  kneeling-stools, 
and  chairs. 

"Ah!  is  that  you,  dear?  Come  here.  Clementine 
and  Madame  de  B.  are  there  in  the  corner  at  the 

[31] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

cannon's  mouth.    You  will  have  to  wait  two  good 
hours." 

"If  Madame  de  B.  is  there,  it  does  not  surprise 
me.  She  is  inexhaustible,  and  there  is  no  other  woman 
who  is  so  long  in  telling  a  thing.  Have  all  these  peo- 
ple not  had  their  turn  yet?  Ah!  there  is  Ernestine." 
(She  waves  her  hand  to  her  quietly.)  "That  child  is 
an  angel.  She  acknowledged  to  me  the  other  day  that 
her  conscience  troubled  her  because,  on  reading  the 
'Passion,'  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  kiss  the 
mat." 

"Ah!  charming;  but,  tell  me,  do  you  kiss  the  mat 
yourself?" 

"I!  no,  never  in  my  life;  it  is  so  nasty,  dear." 

"You  confess  to  the  omission,  at  least?" 

"Oh!  I  confess  all  those  little  trifles  in  a  lump.  I 
say,  'Father,  I  have  erred  out  of  human  self-respect.' 
I  give  the  total  at  once." 

"That  is  just  what  I  do,  and  that  dear  Abbe  Gelon 
discharges  the  bill." 

"Seriously,  time  would  fail  him  if  he  acted  other- 
wise. But  it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  whispering  a  little 
too  much,  dear;  let  me  think  over  my  little  bill." 

Madame  leans  upon  her  praying-stool.  Gracefully 
she  removes,  without  taking  her  eyes  off  the  altar,  the 
glove  from  her  right  hand,  and  with  her  thumb  turns 
the  ring  of  Ste-Genevieve  that  serves  her  as  a  rosary, 
moving  her  lips  the  while.  Then,  with  downcast  eyes 
and  set  lips,  she  loosens  the  fleur-de-lys-engraved  clasp 
of  her  Book  of  Hours,  and  seeks  out  the  prayers  appro- 
priate to  her  condition. 

[32] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

She  reads  with  fervency:  "'My  God,  crushed  be- 
neath the  burden  of  my  sins  I  cast  myself  at  thy 
feet' — how  annoying  that  it  should  be  so  cold  to  the 
feet.  With  my  sore  throat,  I  am  sure  to  have  in- 
fluenza—  'that  I  cast  myself  at  thy  feet' — tell  me, 
dear,  do  you  know  if  the  chapel-keeper  has  a  foot- 
warmer?  Nothing  is  worse  than  cold  feet,  and  that 
Madame  de  P.  sticks  there  for  hours.  I  am  sure  she 
confesses  her  friends'  sins  along  with  her  own.  It  is 
intolerable;  I  no  longer  have  any  feeling  in  my  right 
foot ;  I  would  pay  that  woman  for  her  foot-warmer — '  I 
bow  my  head  in  the  dust  under  the  weight  of  repent- 
ance, and  of— 

"Ah!  Madame  de  P.  has  finished;  she  is  as  red  as 
the  comb  of  a  turkey-cock." 

Four  ladies  rush  forward  with  pious  ardor  to  take 
her  place. 

"Ah!  Madame,  do  not  push  so,  I  beg  of  you." 
"But  I  was  here  before  you,  Madame." 
"I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,  Madame." 
"You  surely  have  a  very  strange  idea  of  the  respect 
which  is  due  to  this  hallowed  spot." 

"Hush,  hush!  Profit  by  the  opportunity,  Madame; 
slip  through  and  take  the  vacant  place.  (Whispering.} 
Do  not  forget  the  big  one  last  night,  and  the  two  little 
ones  of  this  morning." 


[33] 


CHAPTER  V 

MADAME  AND  HER  FRIEND  CHAT  BY  THE  FIRESIDE 

| 

"ADAME  (moving  her  slender  fingers) 
— It  is  ruched,  niched,  niched,  loves 
of  niches,  edged  all  around  with 
blond. 

Her  Friend — That  is  good  style, 
dear. 

Madame — Yes,  I  think  it  will  be 
the  style,  and  over  this  snow-like 
foam  fall  the  skirts  of  blue  silk  like  the  bodice;  but  a 
lovely  blue,  something  like — a  little  less  pronounced 
than  sky-blue,  you  know,  like — my  husband  calls  it  a 
subdued  blue. 

Her  Friend — Splendid.  He  is  very  happy  in  his 
choice  of  terms. 

Madame — Is  he  not?  One  understands  at  once — a 
subdued  blue.  It  describes  it  exactly. 

Her  Friend — But  apropos  of  this,  you  know  that 
Ernestine  has  not  forgiven  him  his  pleasantry  of  the 
other  evening. 

Madame — How,  of  my  husband  ?  What  pleasantry  ? 
The  other  evening  when  the  Abbe  Gelon  and  the  Abbe 
Brice  were  there? 

Her  Friend — And  his  son,  who  was  there  also. 
Madame — What !  the  Abbess  son  ?     (Both  break  into 
laughter.) 

[34] 


Her  Friend — But — ha !  ha !  ha ! — what  are  you  say- 
ing, ha!  ha! — you  little  goose? 

Madame — I  said  the  Abbe*  Gelon  and  the  Abbe* 
Brice,  and  you  add,  'And  his  son.'  It  is  your  fault, 
dear.  He  must  be  a  choir-boy,  that  cherub.  (More 
laughter.} 

Her  Friend  (placing  her  hand  over  her  mouth) — Be 
quiet,  be  quiet;  it  is  too  bad;  and  in  Lent,  too! 

Madame — Well,  but  of  whose  son  are  you  speaking  ? 

Her  Friend — Of  Ernestine's  son,  don't  you  know, 
Albert,  a  picture  of  innocence.  He  heard  your  hus- 
band's pleasantry,  and  his  mother  was  vexed. 

Madame — My  dear,  I  really  don't  know  to  what  you 
refer.  Please  tell  me  all  about  it. 

Her  Friend — Well,  on  entering  the  drawing-room, 
and  perceiving  the  candelabra  lit  up,  and  the  two 
Abbes  standing  at  that  moment  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  your  husband  appeared  as  if  looking  for  some- 
thing, and  when  Ernestine  asked  him  what  it  was,  he 
said  aloud:  "I  am  looking  for  the  holy- water;  please, 
dear  neighbor,  excuse  me  for  coming  in  the  middle  of 
the  service." 

Madame — Is  it  possible  ?  (Laughing.)  The  fact  is, 
he  can  not  get  out  of  it;  he  has  met  the  two  Abbe's, 
twice  running,  at  Ernestine's.  Her  drawing-room  is  a 
perfect  sacristy. 

Her  Friend  (dryly] — A  sacristy!  How  regardless 
you'  are  getting  in  your  language  since  your  marriage, 
dear. 

Madame — Not  more  than  before.  I  never  cared  to 
meet  priests  elsewhere  than  at  church. 

[35] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Her  Friend — Come,  you  are  frivolous,  and  if  I  did 
not  know  you  better — but  do  you  not  like  to  meet  the 
Abbe  Gelon? 

Madame — Ah!  the  Abbe  Gelon,  that  is  quite  differ- 
ent. He  is  charming. 

Her  Friend  (briskly) — His  manners  are  so  distingue. 

Madame — And  respectful.  His  white  hair  is  such 
an  admirable  frame  for  his  pale  face,  which  is  so  full 
of  unction. 

Her  Friend — Oh!  yes,  he  has  unction,  and  his  looks 
— those  sweetly  softened  looks!  The  other  day,  when 
he  was  speaking  on  the  mediation  of  Christ,  he  was 
divine.  At  one  moment  he  wiped  away  a  tear;  he  was 
no  longer  master  of  his  emotions;  but  he  grew  calm 
almost  immediately — his  power  of  self-command  is 
marvellous;  then  he  went  on  quietly,  but  the  emotion 
in  turn  had  overpowered  us.  It  was  electrifying.  The 
Countess  de  S.,  who  was  near  me,  was  bubbling  like  a 
spring,  under  her  yellow  bonnet. 

Madame — Ah!  yes,  I  have  seen  that  yellow  bonnet. 
What  a  sight  that  Madame  de  S.  is! 

Her  Friend — The  truth  is,  she  is  always  dressed  like 
an  apple-woman.  A  bishopric  has  been  offered  these 
messieurs,  I  know,  on  good  authority;  my  husband 
had  it  from  De  FCEuvre.  Well— 

Madame  (interrupting  her) — A  bishopric  offered  to 
Madame  de  S.  It  was  wrong  to  do  so. 

Her  Friend — You  make  fun  of  everything,  my  dear; 
there  are,  however,  some  subjects  which  should  be 
revered.  I  tell  you  that  the  mitre  and  the  ring  have 
been  offered  to  the  Abbe  Gelon.  Well,  he  refused 

[36] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

them.     God  knows,  however,  that  the  pastoral  ring 
would  well  become  his  hand. 

Madame — Oh!  yes,  he  has  a  lovely  hand. 

Her  Friend — He  has  a  white,  slender,  and  aristo- 
cratic hand.  Perhaps  it  is  a  wrong  for  us  to  dwell  on 
these  worldly  details,  but  after  all  his  hand  is  really 
beautiful.  Do  you  know  (enthusiastically)  I  find  that 
the  Abbe  Gelon  compels  love  of  religion  ?  Were  you 
ever  present  at  his  lectures  ? 

Madame — I  was  at  the  first  one.  I  would  have  gone 
again  on  Thursday,  but  Madame  Savain  came  to  try 
on  my  bodice  and  I  had  a  protracted  discussion  with 
her  about  the  slant  of  the  skirts. 

Her  Friend — Ah!  the  skirts  are  cut  slantingly. 

Madame — Yes,  yes,  with  little  cross-bars,  which  is 
an  idea  of  my  own — I  have  not  seen  it  anywhere  else; 
I  think  it  will  not  look  badly. 

Her  Friend — Madame  Savain  told  me  that  you  had 
suppressed  the  shoulders  of  the  corsage. 

Madame — Ah!  the  gossip!  Yes,  I  will  have  nothing 
on  the  shoulders  but  a  ribbon,  a  trifle,  just  enough  to 
fasten  a  jewel  to — I  was  afraid  that  the  corsage  would 
look  a  little  bare.  Madame  Savain  had  laid  on,  at 
intervals,  some  ridiculous  frippery.  I  wanted  to  try 
something  else — my  plan  of  cross-bars,  there  and  then 
— and  I  missed  the  dear  Abbe  Gelon's  lecture.  He 
was  charming,  it  seems. 

Her  Friend — Oh!  charming.  He  spoke  against  bad 
books;  there  was  a  large  crowd.  He  demolished  all 
the  horrible  opinions  of  Monsieur  Renan.  What  a 
monster  that  man  is! 

[37] 

377311 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Madame — You  have  read  his  book? 

Her  Friend — Heaven  forbid!  Don't  you  know  it  is 
impossible  for  one  to  find  anything  more — well,  it 
must  be  very  bad  Messieurs  de  VCEuvre  for  the  Abbe* 
Gelon,  in  speaking  to  one  of  these  friends  of  my  hus- 
band, uttered  the  word 

Madame — Well,  what  word? 

Her  Friend — I  dare  not  tell  you,  for,  really,  if  it  is 
true  it  would  make  one  shudder.  He  said  that  it  was 
(whispering  in  her  ear)  the  Antichrist!  It  makes  one 
feel  aghast,  does  it  not!  They  sell  his  photograph;  he 
has  a  satanic  look.  (Looking  at  the  clock.)  Half-past 
two — I  must  run  away;  I  have  given  no  orders  about 
dinner.  These  three  fast-days  in  the  week  are  to  me 
martyrdom.  One  must  have  a  little  variety;  my  hus- 
band is  very  fastidious.  If  we  did  not  have  water-fowl 
I  should  lose  my  head.  How  do  you  get  on,  dear? 

Madame — Oh!  with  me  it  is  very  simple,  provided  I 
do  not  make  my  husband  leaner;  he  eats  anything. 
You  know,  Augustus  is  not  very  much 

Her  Friend — Not  very  much!  I  think  that  he  is 
much  too  spare ;  for,  after  all,  if  we  do  not  in  this  life 
impose  some  privations  upon  ourselves — no,  that  would 
be  too  easy.  I  hope,  indeed,  that  you  have  a  dis- 
pensation ? 

Madame — Oh !  yes,  I  am  safe  as  to  that. 

Her  Friend — I  have  one,  of  course,  for  butter  and 
eggs,  as  vice-chancellor  of  the  Association.  The  Abbe 
Gelon  begged  me  to  accept  a  complete  dispensation  on 
account  of  my  headaches,  but  I  refused.  Yes!  I  re- 
fused outright.  If  one  makes  a  compromise  writh  one's 

[38] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

principles — but  then  there  are  people  who  have  no 
principles. 

Madame — If  you  mean  that  to  apply  to  my  husband, 
you  are  wrong.  Augustus  is  not  a  heathen — he  has  ex- 
cellent principles. 

Her  Friend — Excellent  principles!  You  make  my 
blood  boil.  But  there,  I  must  go.  Well,  it  is  under- 
stood, I  count  upon  you  for  Tuesday;  he  will  preach 
upon  authority,  a  magnificent  subject,  and  we  may  ex- 
pect allusions.  Ah!  I  forgot  to  tell  you;  I  am  collect- 
ing and  I  expect  your  mite,  dear.  I  take  as  low  a  sum 
as  a  denier  [the  twelfth  of  a  penny].  I  have  an  idea 
of  collecting  with  my  little  girl  on  my  praying-stool. 
Madame  de  K.  collected  on  Sunday  at  St.  Thomas's 
and  her  baby  held  the  alms-bag.  The  little  Jesus  had 
an  immense  success — immense! 

Madame — I  must  go  now.     How  will  you  dress? 

Her  Friend — Oh!  for  the  present,  quite  simply  and 
in  black;  you  understand. 

Madame — Besides,  black  becomes  you  so  well. 

Her  Friend — Yes,  everything  is  for  the  best;  black 
does  not  suit  me  at  all  ill.  Tuesday,  then.  But  my 
dear,  try  to  bring  your  husband,  he  likes  music  so 
much. 

Madame — Well,  I  can  not  promise  that. 

Her  Friend — Ah!  mon  Dieu!  they  are  all  like  that, 
these  men;  they  are  strong-minded,  and  when  grace 
touches  them,  they  look  back  on  their  past  life  with 
horror.  When  my  husband  speaks  of  his  youth,  the 
tears  come  into  his  eyes.  I  must  tell  you  that  he  has 
not  always  been  as  he  is  now;  he  was  a  gay  boy  in  his 

[39] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

youth,  poor  fellow.  I  do  not  detest  a  man  because  he 
knows  life  a  little,  do  you?  But  I  am  gossiping  and 
time  passes;  I  have  a  call  to  make  yet  on  Madame  W. 
I  do  not  know  whether  she  has  found  her  juvenile 
lead. 

Madame — What  for,  in  Heaven's  name  ? 

Her  Friend — For  her  evening  party.  There  are.  to 
be  private  theatricals  at  her  house,  but  for  a  pious 
object,  you  may  be  sure,  during  Lent;  it  is  so  as  to 
have  a  collection  on  behalf  of  the  Association.  I  must 
fly.  Good-by,  dear. 

Madame — Till  Tuesday,  dear;  in  full  uniform? 

Her  Friend  (smiling) — In  full  uniform.  Kind  re- 
gards to  your  reprobate.  I  like  him  very  much  all  the 
same.  Good-by. 


[40] 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   DREAM 

•LEEPLESSNESS  is  almost  always 
to  be  traced  to  indigestion.  My 
friend,  Dr.  Jacques,  is  there  and  he 
will  tell  you  so. 

Now,  on  that  particular  evening,  it 
was  last  Friday,  I  had  committed  the 
mistake  of  eating  brill,   a  fish  that 
positively  disagrees  with  me. 
God  grant  that  the  account  of  the  singular  dream 
which  ensued  may  inspire  you  with  some  prudent  re- 
flections. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  this  was  my  dream,  in  all  its  ex- 
travagance. 

I  had,  in  this  dream,  the  honor  to  belong,  as  senior 
curate,  to  one  of  the  most  frequented  parish  churches 
in  Paris.  What  could  be  more  ridiculous!  I  was, 
moreover,  respectably  stout,  possessed  a  head  decked 
with  silver  locks,  well-shaped  hands,  an  aquiline  nose, 
great  unction,  the  friendship  of  the  lady  worshippers, 
and,  I  venture  to  add,  the  esteem  of  the  rector. 

While  I  was  reciting  the  thanksgiving  after  service, 
and  at  the  same  time  unfastening  the  cords  of  my  alb, 
the  rector  came  up  to  me  (I  see  him  even  now)  blow- 
ing his  nose. 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  he,  "you  hear  confessions 
this  evening,  do  you  not?" 

"Most  certainly.  Are  you  well  this  morning?  I 
had  a  good  congregation  at  mass." 

Having  said  this,  I  finished  my  thanksgiving,  put  my 
alb  into  the  wardrobe,  and,  offering  a  pinch  to  the 
rector,  added  cheerily: 

"This  is  not  breaking  the  fast,  is  it?" 

"Ha!  ha!  no,  no,  no!  Besides,  it  wants  five  minutes 
to  twelve  and  the  clock  is  slow." 

We  took  a  pinch  together  and  walked  off  arm  in  arm 
by  the  little  side  door,  for  night  sacraments,  chatting 
in  a  friendly  way. 

Suddenly  I  found  myself  transported  into  my  confes- 
sional. The  chapel  was  full  of  ladies  who  all  bowed 
at  my  approach.  I  entered  my  narrow  box,  the  key  of 
which  I  had.  I  arranged  on  the  seat  the  air-cushion 
which  is  indispensable  to  me  on  the  evenings  preced- 
ing great  church  festivals,  the  sittings  at  that  season 
being  always  prolonged.  I  slipped  the  white  surplice 
which  was  hanging  from  a  peg  over  my  cassock,  and, 
after  meditating  for  a  moment,  opened  the  little  shutter 
that  puts  me  in  communication  with  the  penitents. 

I  will  not  undertake  to  describe  to  you  one  by  one 
the  different  people  who  came  and  knelt  before  me. 
I  will  not  tell  you,  for  instance,  how  one  of  them,  a 
lady  in  black,  with  a  straight  nose,  thin  lips,  and  sal- 
low complexion,  after  reciting  her  Confiteor  in  Latin, 
touched  me  infinitely  by  the  absolute  confidence  she 
placed  in  me,  though  I  was  not  of  her  sex.  In  five 
minutes  she  found  the  opportunity  to  speak  to  me  of 

[42] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

her  sister-in-law,  her  brother,  an  uncle  who  was  on  the 
point  of  death  whose  heiress  she  was,  her  nephews, 
and  her  servants;  and  I  could  perceive,  despite  the 
tender  benevolence  that  appeared  in  all  her  words,  that 
she  was  the  victim  of  all  these  people.  She  ended  by 
informing  me  she  had  a  marriageable  daughter,  and 
that  her  stomach  was  an  obstacle  to  her  fasting. 

I  can  still  see  a  throng  of  other  penitents,  but  it 
would  take  too  long  to  tell  you  about  them,  and  we 
will  confine  ourselves,  with  your  permission,  to  the  last 
two,  who,  besides,  impressed  upon  my  memory  them- 
selves particularly. 

A  highly  adorned  little  lady  rushed  into  the  confes- 
sional; she  was  brisk,  rosy,  fresh.  Despite  her  expres- 
sion of  deep  thoughtfulness,  she  spoke  very  quickly  in 
a  musical  voice,  and  rattled  through  her  Confiteor,  re- 
gardless of  the  sense. 

"Father,"  she  said,  "I  have  one  thing  that  is  troub- 
ling me." 

"Speak,  my  child;  you  know  that  a  confessor  is  a 
father." 

"Well,  father— but  I  really  dare  not." 

There  are  many  of  these  timid  little  hearts  that  re- 
quire to  be  encouraged.  I  said,  "Go  on,  my  child,  go 
on." 

"My  husband,"  she  murmured  confusedly,  "will 
not  abstain  during  Lent.  Ought  I  to  compel  him, 
father?" 

"Yes,  by  persuasion." 

"But  he  says  that  he  will  go  and  dine  at  the  restau- 
rant if  I  do  not  let  him  have  any  meat.  Oh!  I  suffer 

[43] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

terribly  from  that.  Am  I  not  assuming  the  responsi- 
bility of  all  that  meat,  father?" 

This  young  wife  really  interested  me;  she  had  in  the 
midst  of  one  cheek,  toward  the  corner  of  the  mouth,  a 
small  hollow,  a  kind  of  little  dimple,  charming  in  the 
profane  sense  of  the  word,  and  giving  a  special  expres- 
sion to  her  face.  Her  tiny  white  teeth  glittered  like 
pearls  when  she  opened  her  mouth  to  relate  her  pious 
inquietudes;  she  shed  around,  besides,  a  perfume  al- 
most as  sweet  as  that  of  our  altars,  although  of  a  differ- 
ent kind,  and  I  breathed  this  perfume  with  an  uneasi- 
ness full  of  scruples,  which  for  all  that  inclined  me  to 
indulgence.  I  was  so  close  to  her  that  none  of  the 
details  of  her  face  escaped  me;  I  could  distinguish, 
almost  in  spite  of  myself,  even  a  little  quiver  of  her 
left  eyebrow,  tickled  every  now  and  again  by  a  stray 
tress  of  her  fair  hair. 

"Your  situation,"  I  said,  "is  a  delicate  one;  on  one 
hand,  your  domestic  happiness,  and  on  the  other  your 
duty  as  a  Christian."  She  gave  a  sigh  from  her  very 
heart.  "Well,  my  dear  child,  my  age  warrants  my 
speaking  to  you  like  that,  does  it  not?" 

"Oh,  yes,  father." 

"Well,  my  dear  child" — I  fancy  I  noticed  at  that 
moment  that  she  had  at  the  outer  corner  of  her  eyes 
a  kind  of  dark  mark  something  like  an  arrow-head— 
"try,  my  dear  child,  to  convince  your  husband,  who  in 
his  heart — "  In  addition,  her  lashes,  very  long  and 
somewhat  curled,  were  underlined,  I  might  almost  say, 
by  a  dark  streak  expanding  and  shading  off  delicately 
toward  the  middle  of  the  eye.  This  physical  pecu- 

[44] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

liarity  did  not  seem  to  me  natural,  but  an  effect  of 
premeditated  coquetry. 

Strange  fact,  the  verification  of  such  weakness  in  this 
candid  heart  only  increased  my  compassion.  I  con- 
tinued in  a  gentle  tone: 

"Strive  to  bring  your  husband  to  God.  Abstinence 
is  not  only  a  religious  observance,  it  is  also  a  salutary 
custom.  Non  solum  lex  Dei,  sed  etiam.  Have  you 
done  everything  to  bring  back  your  husband?" 

"Yes,  father,  everything." 

"Be  precise,  my  child;  I  must  know  all." 

"Well,  father,  I  have  tried  sweetness  and  tenderness." 

I  thought  to  myself  that  this  husband  must  be  a 
wretch. 

"I  have  implored  him  for  the  sake  of  our  child," 
continued  the  little  angel,  "not  to  risk  his  salvation 
and  my  own.  Once  or  twice  I  even  told  him  that  the 
spinach  was  dressed  with  gravy  when  it  was  not.  Was 
I  wrong,  father?" 

"There  are  pious  falsehoods  which  the  Church  ex- 
cuses, for  in  such  cases  it  only  takes  into  consideration 
the  intention  and  the  greater  glory  of  God.  I  can  not, 
therefore,  say  that  you  have  done  wrong.  You  have 
not,  have  you,  been  guilty  toward  your  husband  of  any 
of  those  excusable  acts  of  violence  which  may  escape 
a  Christian  soul  when  it  is  struggling  against  error? 
For  it  really  is  not  natural  that  an  honest  man  should 
refuse  to  follow  the  prescription  of  the  Church.  Make 
a  few  concessions  at  first." 

"I  have,  father,  and  perhaps  too  many,"  she  said, 
contritely. 

[45] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Hoping  to  bring  him  back  to  God,  I  accorded  him 
favors  which  I  ought  to  have  refused  him.  I  may  be 
wrong,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  ought  to  have  re- 
fused him." 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  my  dear  child,  everything  de- 
pends upon  degrees,  and  it  is  necessary  in  these  mat- 
ters to  make  delicate  distinctions." 

"That  is  what  I  say  to  myself,  father,  but  my  hus- 
band unites  with  his  kindness  such  a  communicative 
gayety — he  has  such  a  graceful  and  natural  way  of  ex- 
cusing his  impiety — that  I  laugh  in  spite  of  myself 
when  I  ought  to  weep.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  cloud 
comes  between  myself  and  my  duties,  and  my  scruples 
evaporate  beneath  the  charm  of  his  presence  and  his 
wit.  My  husband  has  plenty  of  wit,"  she  added,  with 
a  faint  smile,  in  which  there  was  a  tinge  of  pride. 

"Hum!  hum!"  (the  blackness  of  this  man's  heart 
revolted  me).  " There  is  no  seductive  shape  that  the 
tempter  does  not  assume,  my  child.  Wit  in  itself  is 
not  to  be  condemned,  although  the  Church  shuns  it  as 
far  as  she  is  concerned,  looking  upon  it  as  a  worldly 
ornament;  but  it  may  become  dangerous,  it  may  be 
reckoned  a  veritable  pest  when  it  tends  to  weaken 
faith.  Faith,  which  is  to  the  soul,  I  hardly  need  tell 
you,  what  the  bloom  is  to  the  peach,  and — if  I  may 
so  express  myself,  what  the — dew  is — to  the  flower- 
hum,  hum!  Go  on,  my  child." 

"But,  father,  when  my  husband  has  disturbed  me 
for  a  moment,  I  soon  repent  of  it.  He  has  hardly  gone 
before  I  pray  for  him." 

[46] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"Good,  very  good." 

"I  have  sewn  a  blessed  medal  up  in  his  overcoat." 
This  was  said  more  boldly,  though  still  with  some 
timidity. 

"And  have  you  noticed  any  result?" 

"In  certain  things  he  is  better,  yes,  father,  but  as 
regards  abstinence  he  is  still  intractable,"  she  said  with 
embarrassment. 

"Do  not  be  discouraged.  We  are  in  the  holy  pe- 
riod of  Lent.  Make  use  of  pious  subterfuges,  pre- 
pare him  some  admissible  viands,  but  pleasant  to  the 
taste." 

"Yes,  father,  I  have  thought  of  that.  The  day  be- 
fore yesterday  I  gave  him  one  of  these  salmon  pasties 
that  resemble  ham." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  them.    Well?" 

"Well,  he  ate  the  salmon,  but  he  had  a  cutlet  cooked 
afterward." 

"Deplorable!"  I  exclaimed,  almost  in  spite  of  myself, 
so  excessive  did  the  perversity  of  this  man  seem  to  me. 
"Patience,  my  child,  offer  up  to  Heaven  the  sufferings 
which  your  husband's  impiety  causes  you,  and  remem- 
ber that  your  efforts  will  be  set  down  to  you.  You 
have  nothing  more  to  tell  me?" 

"No,  father." 

"Collect  yourself,  then.    I  will  give  you  absolution." 

The  dear  soul  sighed  as  she  joined  her  two  little 
hands. 

Hardly  had  my  penitent  risen  to  withdraw  when  I 
abruptly  closed  my  little  shutter  and  took  a  long  pinch 
of  snuff — snuff-takers  know  how  much  a  pinch  soothes 

[47] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

the  mind — then  having  thanked  God  rapidly,  I  drew 
from  the  pocket  of  my  cassock  my  good  old  watch, 
and  found  that  it  was  earlier  than  I  thought.  The 
darkness  of  the  chapel  had  deceived  me,  and  my 
stomach  had  shared  my  error.  I  was  hungry.  I  ban- 
ished these  carnal  preoccupations  from  my  mind,  and 
after  shaking  my  bands,  on  which  some  grains  of  snuff 
had  fallen,  I  slackened  one  of  my  braces  that  was  press- 
ing a  little  on  one  shoulder,  and  opened  my  wicket. 

"Well,  Madame,  people  should  be  more  careful," 
said  the  penitent  on  my  left,  addressing  a  lady  of  whom 
I  could  only  see  a  bonnet-ribbon;  "it  is  excusable." 

My  penitent's  voice,  which  was  very  irritated,  though 
restrained  by  respect  for  the  locality,  softened  as  if 
by  magic  at  the  creaking  of  my  wicket.  She  knelt 
down,  piously  folded  her  two  ungloved  hands,  plump, 
perfumed,  rosy,  laden  with  rings — but  let  that  pass. 
I  seemed  to  recognize  the  hands  of  the  Countess  de  B., 
a  chosen  soul,  whom  I  had  the  honor  to  visit  frequently, 
especially  on  Saturday,  when  there  is  always  a  place 
laid  for  me  at  her  table. 

She  raised  her  little  lace  veil  and  I  saw  that  I  was 
not  mistaken.  It  was  the  Countess.  She  smiled  at  me 
as  at  a  person  with  whom  she  was  acquainted,  but  with 
perfect  propriety;  she  seemed  to  be  saying,  "Good- 
day,  my  dear  Abbe,  I  do  not  ask  how  your  rheuma- 
tism is,  because  at  this  moment  you  are  invested  with 
a  sacred  character,  but  I  am  interested  in  it  all  the 
same." 

This  little  smile  was  irreproachable.  I  replied  by  a 
similar  smile,  and  I  murmured  in  a  very  low  tone,  giv- 

[48] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

ing  her,  too,  to  understand  by  the  expression  of  my 
face  that  I  was  making  a  unique  concession  in  her 
favor,  "Are  you  quite  well,  dear  Madame?" 

"Thanks,  father,  I  am  quite  well."  Her  voice  had 
resumed  an  angelic  tone.  "But  I  have  just  been  in  a 
passion." 

"And  why?  Perhaps  you  have  taken  for  a  passion 
what  was  really  only  a  passing  moment  of  temper?" 

It  does  not  do  to  alarm  penitents. 

"Ah!  not  at  all,  it  was  really  a  passion,  father.  My 
dress  had  just  been  torn  from  top  to  bottom;  and  really 
it  is  strange  that  one  should  be  exposed  to  such  mis- 
haps on  approaching  the  tribunal  of— 

"Collect  yourself,  my  dear  Madame,  collect  your- 
self," and  assuming  a  serious  look  I  bestowed  my  bene- 
diction upon  her. 

The  Countess  sought  to  collect  herself,  but  I  saw  very 
well  that  her  troubled  spirit  vainly  strove  to  recover 
itself.  By  a  singular  phenomenon  I  could  see  into  her 
brain,  and  her  thoughts  appeared  to  me  one  after  the 
other.  She  was  saying  to  herself,  "Let  me  collect  my- 
self; our  Father,  give  me  grace  to  collect  myself,"  but 
the  more  effort  she  made  to  restrain  her  imagination 
the  more  it  became  difficult  to  restrain  and  slipped 
through  her  ringers.  "I  had  made  a  serious  examina- 
tion of  my  conscience,  however,"  she  added.  "Not 
ten  minutes  ago  as  I  was  getting  out  of  my  carriage  I 
counted  up  three  sins;  there  was  one  above  all  I 
wished  to  mention.  How  these  little  things  escape  me! 
I  must  have  left  them  in  the  carriage."  And  she  could 
not  help  smiling  to  herself  at  the  idea  of  these  three 
4  [49] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

little  sins  lost  among  the  cushions.  "And  the  poor 
Abb6  waiting  for  me  in  his  box.  How  hot  it  must  be 
in  there!  he  is  quite  red.  Good  Heavens!  how  shall  I 
begin  ?  I  can  not  invent  faults  ?  It  is  that  torn  dress 
which  has  upset  me.  And  there  is  Louise,  who  is  to 
meet  me  at  five  o'clock  at  the  dressmaker's.  It  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  collect  myself.  O  God,  do  not  turn 
away  your  face  from  me,  and  you,  Lord,  who  can  read 
in  my  soul — Louise  will  wait  till  a  quarter  past  five;  be- 
sides, the  bodice  fits — there  is  only  the  skirt  to  try  on. 
And  to  think  that  I  had  three  sins  only  a  minute  ago." 

All  these  different  thoughts,  pious  and  profane,  were 
struggling  together  at  once  in  the  Countess's  brain,  so 
that  I  thought  the  moment  had  come  to  interfere  and 
help  her  a  little. 

"Come,"  I  said,  in  a  paternal  voice,  leaning  forward 
benevolently  and  twisting  my  snuff-box  in  my  fingers. 
"Come,  my  dear  Madame,  and  speak  fearlessly;  have 
you  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with  ?  Have  you  had 
no  impulses  of — worldly  coquetry,  no  wish  to  dazzle  at 
the  expense  of  your  neighbor?" 

I  had  a  vague  idea  that  I  should  not  be  contradicted. 

"Yes,  father,"  she  said,  smoothing  down  her  bonnet 
strings,  "sometimes;  but  I  have  always  made  an  effort 
to  drive  away  such  thoughts." 

"That  good  intention  in  some  degree  excuses  you, 
but  reflect  and  see  how  empty  are  these  little  triumphs 
of  vanity,  how  unworthy  of  a  truly  poor  soul  and  how 
they  draw  it  aside  from  salvation..  I  know  that  there 
are  certain  social  exigencies — society.  Yes,  yes,  but 
after  all  one  can  even  in  those  pleasures  which  the 

[50] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Church  tolerates — I  say  tolerates — bring  to  bear  that 
perfume  of  good-will  toward  one's  neighbor  of  which 
the  Scriptures  speak,  and  which  is  the  appanage — in 
some  degree  .  .  .  the  glorious  appanage.  Yes,  yes, 
go  on." 

"Father,  I  have  not  been  able  to  resist  certain  temp- 
tations to  gluttony." 

"Again,  again !  Begin  with  yourself.  You  are  here 
at  the  tribunal  of  penitence;  well,  promise  God  to 
struggle  energetically  against  these  little  carnal  temp- 
tations, which  are  not  in  themselves  serious  sins — oh! 
no,  I  know  it — but,  after  all,  these  constant  solicitations 
prove  a  persistent  attachment — displeasing  to  Him — to 
the  fugitive  and  deceitful  delights  of  this  world.  Hum, 
hum!  and  has  this  gluttony  shown  itself  by  more  blame- 
worthy actions  than  usual — is  it  simply  the  same  as 
last  month?" 

"The  same  as  last  month,  father." 

"Yes,  yes,  pastry  between  meals,"  I  sighed  gravely. 

"Yes,  father,  and  almost  always  a  glass  of  Capri  or 
of  Syracuse  after  it." 

"Or  of  Syracuse  after  it.  Well,  let  that  pass,  let 
that  pass." 

I  fancied  that  the  mention  of  this  pastry  and  those 
choice  wines  was  becoming  a  source  of  straying  thoughts 
on  my  part,  for  which  I  mentally  asked  forgiveness  of 
heaven. 

"What  else  do  you  recall?"  I  asked,  passing  my 
hand  over  my  face. 

"Nothing  else,  father;  I  do  not  recollect  anything 
else." 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"Well,  let  a  sincere  repentance  spring  up  in  your 
heart  for  the  sins  you  have  just  admitted,  and  for  those 
which  you  may  have  forgotten;  commune  with  your- 
self, humble  yourself  in  the  presence  of  the  great  act 
you  have  just  accomplished.  I  will  give  you  absolu- 
tion. Go  in  peace." 

The  Countess  rose,  smiled  at  me  with  discreet  cour- 
tesy, and,  resuming  her  ordinary  voice,  said  in  a  low 
tone,  "Till  Saturday  evening,  then?" 

I  bowed  as  a  sign  of  assent,  but  felt  rather  embar- 
rassed on  account  of  my  sacred  character. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AN  EMBASSY  BALL 

DON'T  say  that  it  is  not  pretty," 
added  my  aunt,  brushing  the  fire- 
dog  with  the  tip  of  her  tiny  boot. 
"It  lends  an  especial  charm  to  the 
look,  I  must  acknowledge.  A  cloud 
of  powder  is  most  becoming,  a  touch 
of  rouge  has  a  charming  effect,  and 
even  that  blue  shadow  that  they 
spread,  I  don't  know  how,  under  the  eye.  What 
coquettes  some  women  are!  Did  you  notice  Anna's 
eyes  at  Madame  de  Sieurac's  last  Thursday?  Is  it 
allowable  ?  Frankly,  can  you  understand  how  any  one 
can  dare?" 

"Well,  aunt,  I  did  not  object  to  those  eyes,  and  be- 
tween ourselves  they  had  a  softness." 
"I  do  not  deny  that,  they  had  a  softness." 
"And  at  the  same  time  such  a  strange  brilliancy  be- 
neath that  half  shadow,  an  expression  of  such  deli- 
cious languor." 

"Yes,  certainly,  but,  after  all,  it  is  making  an  exhibi- 
tion of  one's  self.  But  for  that — it  is  very  pretty  some- 
times— I  have  seen  in  the  Bois  charming  creatures 
under  their  red,  their  black,  and  their  blue,  for  they 
put  on  blue  too,  God  forgive  me!" 

[53] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"Yes,  aunt,  Polish  blue;  it  is  put  on  with  a  stump; 
it  is  for  the  veins. 

With  interest :  "They  imitate  veins!  It  is  shocking, 
upon  my  word.  But  you  seem  to  know  all  about  it?" 

"Oh,  I  have  played  so  often  in  private  theatricals;  I 
have  even  quite  a  collection  of  little  pots  of  color,  hare's- 
feet  stumps,  pencils,  et  cetera" 

"Ah!  you  have,  you  rascal!  Are  you  going  to  the 
fancy  ball  at  the  Embassy  to-morrow?" 

"Yes,  aunt;  and  you,  are  you  going  in  character?" 

"One  must,  since  every  one  else  will.  They  say  the 
effect  will  be  splendid."  After  a  silence:  "I  shall  wear 
powder;  do  you  think  it  will  suit  me?" 

"Better  than  any  one,  my  dear  aunt;  you  will  look 
adorable,  I  feel  certain." 

"We  shall  see,  you  little  courtier." 

She  rose,  gave  me  her  hand  to  kiss  with  an  air  of  ex- 
quisite grace,  and  seemed  about  to  withdraw,  then, 
seemingly  changing  her  mind: 

"Since  you  are  going  to  the  Embassy  to-morrow, 
Ernest,  call  for  me;  I  will  give  you  a  seat  in  the  car- 
riage. You  can  give  me  your  opinion  on  my  costume, 
and  then,"  she  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  taking  me  by 
the  hand,  added  in  my  ear:  "Bring  your  little  pots  and 
come  early.  This  is  between  ourselves."  She  put  her 
finger  to  her  lip  as  a  signal  for  discretion.  "Till  to- 
morrow, then." 

The  following  evening  my  aunt's  bedroom  presented 
a  spectacle  of  most  wild  disorder. 
Her  maid  and  the  dressmaker,  with  haggard  eyes, 

[54] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

for  they  had  been  up  all  night,  were  both  on  their 
knees,  rummaging  amidst  the  bows  of  satin,  and  fever- 
ishly sticking  in  pins. 

"How  late  you  are,"  said  my  aunt  to  me.  "Do  you 
know  that  it  is  eleven  o'clock?  and  we  have,"  she  con- 
tinued, showing  her  white  teeth,  "a  great  many  things  to 
do  yet.  The  horses  have  been  put  to  this  last  hour.  I 
am  sure  they  will  take  cold  in  that  icy  courtyard."  As 
she  spoke  she  stretched  out  her  foot,  shod  with  a  red- 
heeled  slipper,  glittering  with  gold  embroidery.  Her 
plump  foot  seemed  to  overflow  the  side  of  the  shoe  a 
trifle,  and  through  the  openwork  of  her  bright  silk 
stocking  the  rosy  skin  of  her  ankle  showed  at  in- 
tervals. 

"What  do  you  think  of  me,  Monsieur  Artist?" 

"But,  Countess,  my  dear  aunt,  I  mean,  I — I  am 
dazzled  by  this  July  sun,  the  brightest  of  all  the  year, 
you  know.  You  are  adorable,  adorable — and  your 
hair!" 

"Is  it  not  well  arranged ?  Silvani  did  it;  he  has  not 
his  equal,  that  man.  The  diamonds  in  the  hair  go 
splendidly,  and  then  this  lofty  style  of  head-dressing 
gives  a  majestic  turn  to  the  neck.  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  are  aware  that  I  have  always  been  a 
coquette  as  regards  my  neck;  it  is  my  only  bit  of 
vanity.  Have  you  brought  your  little  color-pots?" 

"Yes,  aunt,  I  have  the  whole  apparatus,  and  if  you 
will  sit  down " 

"I  am  frightfully  pale — just  a  little,  Ernest;  you 
know  what  I  told  you,"  and  she  turned  her  head, 
presenting  her  right  eye  to  me.  I  can  still  see  that  eye. 

[55] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

I  do  not  know  what  strange  perfume,  foreign  to 
aunts  in  general,  rose  from  her  garments. 

"You  understand,  my  dear  boy,  that  it  is  only  an 
occasion  like  the  present,  and  the  necessities  of  a 
historical  costume,  that  make  me  consent  to  paint  like 
this." 

"My  dear  little  aunt,  if  you  move,  my  hand  will 
shake."  And,  indeed,  in  touching  her  long  lashes,  my 
hand  trembled. 

"Ah!  yes,  in  the  corner,  a  little — you  are  right,  it 
gives  a  softness,  a  vagueness,  a — it  is  very  funny,  that 
little  pot  of  blue.  How  ugly  it  must  be !  How  things 
lead  on  one  to  another!  Once  one's  hair  is  powdered, 
one  must  have  a  little  pearl  powder  on  one's  face  in 
order  not  to  look  as  yellow  as  an  orange;  and  one's 
cheeks  once  whitened,  one  can't — you  are  tickling 
me  with  your  brush — one  can't  remain  like  a  miller, 
so  a  touch  of  rouge  is  inevitable.  And  then — see  how 
wicked  it  is — if,  after  all  that,  one  does  not  enlarge  the 
eyes  a  bit,  they  look  as  if  they  had  been  bored  with  a 
gimlet,  don't  they?  It  is  like  this  that  one  goes  on 
little  by  little,  till  one  comes  to  the  gallows." 

My  aunt  began  to  laugh  freely,  as  she  studied  her 
face. 

"Ah!  that  is  very  effective  what  you  have  just  done 
— well  under  the  eye,  that's  it.  What  animation  it 
gives  to  the  look!  How  clever  those  creatures  are, 
how  well  they  know  everything  that  becomes  one! 
It  is  shameful,  for  with  them  it  is  a  trick,  nothing 
more.  Oh!  you  may  put  on  a  little  more  of  that  blue 
of  yours,  I  see  what  it  does  now.  It  has  a  very  good 

[56] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

effect.  How  you  are  arching  the  eyebrows.  Don't  you 
think  it  is  a  little  too  black  ?  You  know  I  should  not 
like  to  look  as  if — you  are  right,  though.  Where  did 
you  learn  all  that  ?  You  might  earn  a  deal  of  money, 
do  you  know,  if  you  set  up  a  practice." 

"Well,  aunt,  are  you  satisfied?" 

My  aunt  held  her  hand-glass  at  a  distance,  brought 
it  near,  held  it  away  again,  smiled,  and,  leaning  back 
in  her  chair,  said:  "It  must  be  acknowledged  that  it 
is  charming,  this.  What  do  your  friends  call  it?" 

"Make-up,  aunt." 

"It  is  vexatious  that  it  has  not  another  name,  for 
really  I  shall  have  recourse  to  it — for  the  evening — 
from  time  to  time.  It  is  certain  that  it  is  attractive. 
Haven't  you  a  little  box  for  the  lips?" 

"Here  it  is." 

"Ah!  in  a  bottle,  it  is  liquid." 

"It  is  a  kind  of  vinegar,  as  you  see.  Don't  move, 
aunt.  Put  out  your  lips  as  if  you  wished  to  kiss  me. 
You  don't  by  chance  want  to?" 

"Yes,  and  you  deserve  it.  You  will  teach  me  your 
little  accomplishments,  will  you  not?" 

"Willingly,  aunt." 

"Your  vinegar  is  miraculous!  what  brightness  it 
gives  to  the  lips,  and  how  white  one's  teeth  look.  It  is 
true  my  teeth  were  always— 

"Another  of  your  bits  of  vanity." 

"It  is  done,  then.  Thank  you."  She  smiled  at  me 
mincingly,  for  the  vinegar  stung  her  lips  a  little. 

With  her  moistened  finger  she  took  a  patch  which 
she  placed  with  charming  coquetry  under  her  eye,  and 

[57] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

another  which  she  placed  near  the  corner  of  her  mouth, 
and  then,  radiant  and  adorable,  exclaimed:  "Hide 
away  your  little  color-pots;  I  hear  your  uncle  coming 
for  me.  Clasp  my  bracelets  for  me.  Midnight!  O 
my  poor  horses!" 

At  that  moment  my  uncle  entered  in  silk  shorts  and 
a  domino. 

"I  hope  I  do  not  intrude,"  said  he,  gayly,  on  seeing 
me. 

"What  nonsense!"  said  my  aunt,  turning  toward 
him.  "Ernest  is  going  to  the  Embassy,  like  ourselves, 
and  I  have  offered  him  a  seat  in  the  carriage." 

At  the  aspect  of  my  aunt,  my  uncle,  dazzled,  held  out 
his  gloved  hand  to  her,  saying,  "You  are  enchanting 
this  evening,  my  dear."  Then,  with  a  sly  smile,  "Your 
complexion  has  a  fine  brightness,  and  your  eyes  have  a 
wonderful  brilliancy." 

"Oh,  it  is  the  fire  they  have  been  making  up — it  is 
stifling  here.  But  you,  my  dear,  you  look  splendid; 
I  have  never  seen  your  beard  so  black." 

"It  is  because  I  am  so  pale — I  am  frozen.  Jean 
forgot  to  look  after  my  fire  at  all,  and  it  went  out. 
Are  you  ready?" 

My  aunt  smiled  in  turn  as  she  took  up  her  fan. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


MY  AUNT  AS  VENUS 

LINCE  that  day  when  I  kissed  Madame 
de  B.  right  on  the  centre  of  the  neck, 
as  she  held  out  her  forehead  to  me, 
there  has  crept  into  our  intercourse 
an  indescribable,  coquettish  coolness, 
which  is  nevertheless  by  no  means 
unpleasant.  The  matter  of  the  kiss 
has  never  been  completely  explained. 
It  happened  just  as  I  left  Saint-Cyr.  I  was  full  of 
ardor,  and  the  cravings  of  my  heart  sometimes  blinded 
me.  I  say  that  they  sometimes  blinded  me;  I  repeat, 
blinded  me,  and  this  is  true,  for  really  I  must  have 
been  possessed  to  have  kissed  my  aunt  on  the  neck  as 
I  did  that  day.  But  let  that  pass. 

It  was  not  that  she  was  hardly  worth  it;  my  little 
auntie,  as  I  used  to  call  her  then,  was  the  prettiest 
woman  in  the  world — coquettish,  elegant,  and  what  a 
foot !  and,  above  all,  that  delightful  little — I  don't  know 
what — which  is  so  fashionable  now,  and  which  tempts 
one  always  to  say  too  much. 

When  I  say  that  I  must  have  been  possessed,  it  is 
because  I  think  of  the  consequences  to  which  that  kiss 
might  have  led.  Her  husband,  General  de  B.,  being 

[59] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

my  direct  superior,  it  might  have  got  me  into  a  very 
awkward  position;  besides,  there  is  the  respect  due  to 
one's  family.  Oh,  I  have  never  failed  in  that. 

But  I  do  not  know  why  I  am  recalling  all  these  old 
recollections,  which  have  nothing  in  common  with  what 
I  am  about  to  relate  to  you.  My  intention  was  simply 
to  tell  you  that  since  my  return  from  Mexico  I  go 
pretty  frequently  to  Madame  de  B.'s,  as  perhaps  you 
do  also,  for  she  keeps  up  a  rather  good  establishment, 
receives  every  Monday  evening,  and  there  is  usually 
a  crowd  of  people  at  her  house,  for  she  is  very  enter- 
taining. There  is  no  form  of  amusement  that  she  does 
not  resort  to  in  order  to  keep  up  her  reputation  as  a 
woman  of  fashion.  I  must  own,  however,  that  I  had 
never  seen  anything  at  her  house  to  equal  what  I  saw 
last  Monday. 

I  was  in  the  ante-room,  where  the  footman  was  help- 
ing me  off  with  my  top-coat,  when  Jean,  approach- 
ing me  with  a  suspicion  of  mystery,  said:  "My  mis- 
tress expects  to  see  you  immediately,  Monsieur,  in  her 
bedroom.  If  you  will  walk  along  the  passage  and 
knock  at  the  door  at  the  end,  you  will  find  her." 

When  one  has  just  returned  from  the  other  side  of 
the  world,  such  words  sound  queer.  The  old  affair  of 
the  kiss  recurred  to  me  in  spite  of  myself.  What  could 
my  aunt  want  with  me? 

I  tapped  quietly  at  the  door,  and  heard  at  once  an 
outburst  of  stifled  laughter. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  exclaimed  a  laughing  voice. 

"I  won't  be  seen  in  this  state,"  whispered  another — 
"Yes" — "No" — "You  are  absurd,  my  dear,  since  it  is 

[60] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

an  affair  of  art."  "Ha,  ha,  ha."  And  they  laughed 
and  laughed  again. 

At  last  a  voice  cried,  "Come  in,"  and  I  turned  the 
handle. 

At  first  glance  I  could  only  make  out  a  confused 
chaos,  impossible  to  describe,  amidst  which  my  aunt 
was  bustling  about  clad  in  pink  fleshings.  Clad,  did  I 
say? — very  airily. 

The  furniture,  the  carpet,  the  mantel-piece  were  en- 
cumbered, almost  buried  under  a  heterogeneous  mass 
of  things.  Muslin  petticoats,  tossed  down  haphazard, 
pieces  of  lace,  a  cardboard  helmet  covered  with  gilt 
paper,  open  jewel-cases,  bows  of  ribbon ;  curling-tongs, 
half  hidden  in  the  ashes;  and  on  every  side  little  pots, 
paint-brushes,  odds  and  ends  of  all  kinds.  Behind  two 
screens,  which  ran  across  the  room,  I  could  hear  whis- 
perings, and  the  buzzing  sound  peculiar  to  women 
dressing  themselves.  In  one  corner  Silvani — the  illus- 
trious Silvani,  still  wearing  the  large  white  apron  he 
assumes  when  powdering  his  clients — was  putting  away 
his  powder-puff  and  turning  down  his  sleeves  with  a 
satisfied  air.  I  stood  petrified.  What  was  going  on  at 
my  aunt's? 

She  discovered  my  astonishment,  and  without  turn- 
ing round  she  said  in  agitated  tones: 

"Ah!  is  it  you,  Ernest?"  Then  as  if  making  up 
her  mind,  she  broke  into  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter, 
like  all  women  who  have  good  teeth,  and  added,  with 
a  slightly  superior  ah",  "You  see,  we  are  having  pri- 
vate theatricals." 

Then  turning  toward  me  with  her  elegant  coiffure 

[61] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

powdered  to  excess,  I  could  see  that  her  face  was 
painted  like  that  of  a  priestess  of  antiquity.  That 
gauze,  that  atmosphere,  redolent  with  feminine  per- 
fumes, and  behind  those  screens — behind  those  screens! 

"Women  in  society,"  I  said  to  myself,  looking  about 
me,  "must  be  mad  to  amuse  themselves  in  this  fashion." 

"And  what  piece  are  you  going  to  play,  aunt,  in  such 
an  attractive  costume?" 

"Good  evening,  Captain,"  called  out  a  laughing  voice 
from  behind  the  screen  on  the  right. 

"We  were  expecting  you,"  came  from  behind  the 
screen  on  the  left. 

"Good  evening,  ladies;  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"It  is  not  a  play,"  observed  my  aunt,  modestly  draw- 
ing together  her  sea- weed  draperies.  "How  behind  the 
age  you  are,  to  think  that  any  one  plays  set-pieces  nowa- 
days. It  is  not  a  piece,  it  is  a  tableau  vivant, '  The  Judg- 
ment of  Paris.'  You  know  'The  Judgment  of  Paris'  ? 
I  take  the  part  of  Venus — I  did  not  want  to,  but  they  all 
urged  me — give  me  a  pin — on  the  mantelpiece — near 
the  bag  of  bonbons — there  to  the  left,  next  to  the 
jewel-case — close  by  the  bottle  of  gum  standing  on 
my  prayer-book.  Can't  you  see?  Ah!  at  last.  In 
short,  the  knife  to  my  throat  to  compel  me  to  play 
Venus." 

Turning  to  the  screen  on  the  right  she  said :  "  Pass  me 
the  red  for  the  lips,  dear;  mine  are  too  pale."  To  the 
hairdresser,  who  is  making  his  way  to  the  door:  "Sil- 
vani,  go  to  the  gentlemen  who  are  dressing  in  the  bil- 
liard-room, and  in  the  Baron's  dressing-room,  they  per- 
haps may  need  you.  Madame  de  S.  and  her  daughters 

[62] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  BEBE 

are  in  the  boudoir — ah!  see  whether  Monsieur  de  V. 
has  found  his  apple  again — he  plays  Paris,"  added  my 
aunt,  turning  toward  me  once  more;  "the  apple  must 
not  be  lost — well,  dear,  and  that  red  for  the  lips  I 
asked  you  for?  Pass  it  to  the  Captain  over  the 
screen." 

"Here  it  is;  but  make  haste,  Captain,  my  cuirass 
cracks  as  soon  as  I  raise  my  arm." 

I  descried  above  the  screen  two  slender  fingers,  one 
of  which,  covered  with  glittering  rings,  held  in  the  air 
a  little  pot  without  a  cover. 

"What,  is  your  cuirass  cracking,  Marchioness?" 

"Oh!  it  will  do,  but  make  haste  and  take  it,  Cap- 
tain." 

"You  may  think  it  strange,  but  I  tremble  like  a  leaf," 
exclaimed  my  aunt.  "I  am  afraid  of  being  ill.  Do 
you  hear  the  gentlemen  who  are  dressing  in  there  in 
the  Baron's  dressing-room ?  What  a  noise!  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
it  is  charming,  a  regular  gang  of  strollers.  It  is  exhila- 
rating, do  you  know,  this  feverish  existence,  this  life  in 
front  of  the  footlights.  But,  for  the  love  of  Heaven, 
shut  the  door,  Marie,  there  is  a  frightful  draught  blow- 
ing on  me.  This  hourly  struggle  with  the  public,  the 
hisses,  the  applause,  would,  with  my  impressionable 
nature,  drive  me  mad,  I  am  sure." 

The  old  affair  of  the  kiss  recurred  to  me  and  I  said 
to  myself,  "Captain,  you  misunderstood  the  nature  of 
your  relative." 

"But  that  is  not  the  question  at  all,"  continued  my 
aunt;  "ten  o'clock  is  striking.  Ernest,  can  you  apply 

liquid  white?    As  you  are  rather  experienced " 

[63] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"Rather — ha!  ha!  ha!"  said  some  one  behind  the 
screen. 

"On  the  whole,"  continued  the  Baroness,  "it  would 
be  very  singular  if,  in  the  course  of  your  campaigns, 
you  had  never  seen  liquid  white  applied." 

"Yes,  aunt,  I  have  some  ideas;  yes,  I  have  some 
ideas  about  liquid  white,  and  by  summoning  together 
all  my  recollections " 

"Is  it  true,  Captain,  that  it  causes  rheumatism?" 

"No,  not  at  all;  have  a  couple  of  logs  put  on  the  fire 
and  give  me  the  stuff." 

So  saying,  I  turned  up  my  sleeves  and  poured  some 
of  the  "Milk  of  Beauty"  into  a  little  onyx  bowl  that 
was  at  hand,  then  I  dipped  a  little  sponge  into  it,  and 
approached  my  Aunt  Venus  with  a  smile. 

"You  are  sure  that  it  has  no  effect  on  the  skin — 
no,  I  really  dare  not."  As  she  said  this  she  looked  as 
prim  as  a  vestal.  "It  is  the  first  time,  do  you  know, 
that  I  ever  used  this  liquid  white,  ah!  ah!  ah!  What  a 
baby  I  am!  I  am  all  in  a  shiver." 

"But,  my  dear,  you  are  foolish,"  exclaimed  the  lady 
of  the  screen,  breaking  into  a  laugh;  "when  one  acts 
one  must  submit  to  the  exigencies  of  the  footlights." 

"You  hear,  aunt?    Come,  give  me  your  arm." 

She  held  out  her  full,  round  arm,  on  the  surface  of. 
which  was  spread  that  light  and  charming  down,  sym- 
bol of  maturity.  I  applied  the  wet  sponge. 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  "  exclaimed  the  Baroness;  "it  is  like 
ice,  a  regular  shower-bath,  and  you  want  to  put  that 
all  over  me  ? 

Just  then  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  which  led 

[64] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

out  of  the  Baron's  dressing-room,  and  instinctively  I 
turned  toward  it. 

"Who's  there?  Oh!  you  are  letting  it  splutter  all 
over  me!"  exclaimed  the  Baroness.  "You  can't  come 
in;  what  is  it?" 

"What  is  the  matter,  aunt?" 

"You  can't  come  in,"  exclaimed  some  one  behind  the 
screen;  "my  cuirass  has  split.  Marie,  Rosine,  a  needle 
and  thread,  the  gum." 

"Oh!  there  is  a  stream  all  down  my  back,  your 
horrid  white  is  running  down,"  said  the  Baroness,  in 
a  rage. 

"I  will  wipe  it.    I  am  really  very  sorry." 

"Can  you  get  your  hand  down  my  back,  do  you 
think?" 

"Why  not,  aunt?" 

"Why  not,  why  not!  Because  where  there  is  room 
for  a  drop  of  water,  there  is  not  room  for  the  hand  of 
a  lancer." 

Another  knock,  this  time  at  the  door  opening  from 
the  passage. 

"What  is  it  now?" 

"The  torches  have  come,  Madame,"  said  a  footman. 
"Will  you  have  them  lighted?" 

"Ah!  the  torches  of  Mesdemoiselles  de  N.,  who  are 
dressing  in  the  boudoir.  No,  certainly  not,  do  not  light 
them,  they  are  not  wanted  till  the  second  tableau." 

"Do  not  stir,  aunt,  I  beg  of  you.  Mesdemoiselles  de 
N.  appear  too,  then?" 

"Yes,  with  their  mamma;  they  represent  'The 
Lights  of  Faith  driving  out  Unbelief,'  thus  they  natu- 
5  [65] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

rally  require  torches.  You  know,  they  are  tin  tubes 
with  spirits  of  wine  which  blazes  up.  It  will  be,  per- 
haps, the  prettiest  tableau  of  the  evening.  It  is  an  in- 
direct compliment  we  wish  to  pay  to  the  Cardinal's 
nephew;  you  know  the  dark  young  man  with  very 
curly  hair  and  saintly  eyes;  you  saw  him  last  Monday. 
He  is  in  high  favor  at  court.  The  Comte  de  Geloni  was 
kind  enough  to  promise  to  come  this  evening,  and  then 
Monsieur  de  Saint  P.  had  the  idea  of  this  tableau.  His 
imagination  is  boundless,  Monsieur  de  Saint  P.,  not  to 
mention  his  good  taste,  if  he  would  not  break  his  prop- 
erties." 

"Is  he  not  also  a  Chevalier  of  the  Order  of  Saint 
Gregory?" 

"Yes,  and,  between  ourselves,  I  think  that  he  would 
not  be  sorry  to  become  an  officer  in  it." 

"Ah!  I  understand,  'The  Lights  of  Faith  driving 
out/  et  cetera.  But  tell  me,  aunt,  am  I  not  brushing 
you  too  hard  ?  Lift  up  your  arm  a  little,  please.  Tell 
me  who  has  undertaken  the  part  of  Unbelief?" 

"Don't  speak  of  it,  it  is  quite  a  history.  As  it  hap- 
pened, the  casting  of  the  parts  took  place  the  very 
evening  on  which  his  Holiness' s  Encyclical  was  pub- 
lished, so  that  the  gentlemen  were  somewhat  excited. 
Monsieur  de  Saint  P.  took  high  ground,  really  very 
high  ground ;  indeed,  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  the 
General  was  going  to  flare  out.  In  short,  no  one  would 
have  anything  to  do  with  Unbelief,  and  we  had  to  have 
recourse  to  the  General's  coachman,  John — you  know 
him  ?  He  is  a  good-looking  fellow ;  he  is  a  Protestant, 
moreover,  so  that  the  part  is  not  a  novel  one  to  him." 

[66] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"No  matter,  it  will  be  disagreeable  for  the  De  N.'s 
to  appear  side  by  side  with  a  servant." 

"Come!  such  scruples  must  not  be  carried  too  far; 
he  is  smeared  over  with  black  and  lies  stretched  on  his 
face,  while  the  three  ladies  trample  on  him,  so  you  see 
that  social  proprieties  are  observed  after  all.  Come, 
have  you  done  yet  ?  My  hair  is  rather  a  success,  is  it 
not  ?  Silvani  is  the  only  man  who  understands  how  to 
powder  one.  He  wanted  to  dye  it  red,  but  I  prefer  to 
wait  till  red  hair  has  found  its  way  a  little  more  into 
society." 

"There;  it  is  finished,  aunt.  Is  it  long  before  you 
have  to  go  on?" 

"No.  Good  Heavens,  it  is  close  on  eleven  o'clock! 
The  thought  of  appearing  before  all  these  people — 
don't  the  flowers  drooping  from  my  head  make  my  neck 
appear  rather  awkward,  Ernest?  Will  you  push  them 
up  a  little?" 

Then  going  to  the  door  of  the  dressing-room  she 
tapped  at  it  gently,  saying,  "Are  you  ready,  Monsieur 
deV.?" 

"Yes,  Baroness,  I  have  found  my  apple,  but  I  am 
horribly  nervous.  Are  Minerva  and  Juno  dressed? 
Oh!  I  am  nervous  to  a  degree  you  have  no  idea  of." 

"Yes,  yes,  every  one  is  ready;  send  word  to  the 
company  in  the  drawing-room.  My  poor  heart  throbs 
like  to  burst,  Captain." 


[67] 


CHAPTER  IX 

HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 

DEAR  SISTERS : 

Marriage,  as  it  is  now  understood, 
is  not  exactly  conducive  to  love.  In 
this  I  do  not  think  that  I  am  stating 
an  anomaly.  Love  in  marriage  is,  as 
a  rule,  too  much  at  his  ease;  he 
stretches  himself  with  too  great  list- 
lessness  in  armchairs  too  well  cush- 
ioned. He  assumes  the  unconstrained  habits  of  dress- 
ing-gown and  slippers;  his  digestion  goes  wrong,  his 
appetite  fails  and  of  an  evening,  in  the  too-relaxing 
warmth  of  a  nest,  made  for  him,  he  yawns  over  his 
newspaper,  goes  to  sleep,  snores,  and  pines  away.  It 
is  all  very  well,  my  sisters,  to  say,  "But  not  at  ail- 
but  how  can  it  be,  Father  Z.  ? — you  know  nothing  about 
it,  reverend  father." 

I  maintain  that  things  are  as  I  have  stated,  and  that 
at  heart  you  are  absolutely  of  my  opinion.  Yes,  your 
poor  heart  has  suffered  very  often;  there  are  nights 
during  which  you  have  wept,  poor  angel,  vainly  await- 
ing the  dream  of  the  evening  before. 

"Alas!"  you  say,  "is  it  then  all  over?  One  sum- 
mer's day,  then  thirty  years  of  autumn,  to  me,  who  am 
so  fond  of  sunshine."  That  is  what  you  have  thought. 

[68] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

But  you  say  nothing,  not  knowing  what  you  should 
say.  Lacking  self-confidence  and  ignorant  of  yourself, 
you  have  made  it  a  virtue  to  keep  silence  and  not  wake 
your  husband  while  he  sleeps;  you  have  got  into  the  hab- 
it of  walking  on  the  tips  of  your  toes  so  as  not  to  disturb 
the  household,  and  your  husband,  in  the  midst  of  this 
refreshing  half-sleep,  has  begun  to  yawn  luxuriously; 
then  he  has  gone  out  to  his  club,  where  he  has  been  re- 
ceived like  the  prodigal  son,  while  you,  poor  poet 
without  pen  or  ink,  have  consoled  yourself  by  watching 
your  sisters  follow  the  same  road  as  yourself. 

You  have,  all  of  you,  ladies,  your  pockets  full  of 
manuscripts,  charming  poems,  delightful  romances;  it 
is  a  reader  who  is  lacking  to  you,  and  your  husband 
takes  up  his  hat  and  stick  at  the  very  sight  of  your 
handwriting;  he  firmly  believes  that  there  are  no  more 
romances  except  those  already  in  print.  From  having 
read  so  many,  he  considers  that  no  more  can  be  writ- 
ten. 

This  state  of  things  I  regard  as  absolutely  detest- 
able. I  look  upon  you,  my  dear  sisters,  as  poor  vic- 
tims, and  if  you  will  permit  I  will  give  you  my  opinion 
on  the  subject. 

Esteem  and  friendship  between  husband  and  wife 
are  like  our  daily  bread,  very  pleasant  and  respectable; 
but  a  little  jam  would  not  spoil  that,  you  will  admit! 
If,  therefore,  one  of  your  friends  complains  of  the  free- 
dom that  reigns  in  this  little  book,  let  her  talk  on  and 
be  sure  beforehand  that  this  friend  eats  dry  bread.  We 
have  described  marriage  as  we  think  it  should  be — 
depicting  smiling  spouses,  delighted  to  be  together. 

[69] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Is  it  because  love  is  rare  as  between  husband  and 
wife  that  it  is  considered  unbecoming  to  relate  its  joys  ? 
Is  it  regret,  or  envy,  that  renders  you  fastidious  on  the 
subject,  sisters  ?  Reserve  your  blushes  for  the  pictures 
of  that  society  of  courtesans  where  love  is  an  article  of 
commerce,  where  kisses  are  paid  for  in  advance.  Re- 
gard the  relation  of  these  coarse  pleasures  as  immodest 
and  revolting,  be  indignant,  scold  your  brethren — I  will 
admit  that  you  are  in  the  right  beforehand;  but  for 
Heaven's  sake  do  not  be  offended  if  we  undertake  your 
defence,  when  we  try  to  render  married  life  pleasant  and 
attractive,  and  advise  husbands  to  love  their  wives,  wives 
to  love  their  husbands. 

You  must  understand  that  there  is  a  truly  moral  side 
to  all  this.  To  prove  that  you  are  adorable;  that  there 
are  pleasures,  joys,  happiness,  to  be  found  outside  the 
society  of  those  young  women — such  is  our  object; 
and  since  we  are  about  to  describe  it,  we  venture  to 
hope  that  after  reflecting  for  a  few  minutes  you  will 
consider  our  intentions  praiseworthy,  and  encourage  us 
to  persevere  in  them. 

I  do  not  know  why  mankind  has  chosen  to  call  mar- 
riage a  man-trap,  and  all  sorts  of  frightful  things;  to  stick 
up  all  round  it  boards  on  which  one  reads:  "Beware  of 
the  sacred  ties  of  marriage;"  "Do  not  jest  with  the 
sacred  duties  of  a  husband ; "  "  Meditate  on  the  sacred 
obligation  of  a  father  of  a  family;"  "Remember  that 
the  serious  side  of  life  is  beginning;"  "No  weakness; 
henceforth  you  are  bound  to  find  yourself  face  to  face 
with  stern  reality,"  etc.,  etc. 

I  will  not  say  that  it  is  imprudent  to  set  forth  all 

[7o] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

those  fine  things;  but  when  done  it  should  be  done 
with  less  affectation.  To  warn  people  that  there  are 
thorns  in  the  path  is  all  very  well;  but,  hang  it!  there 
is  something  else  in  married  life,  something  that  ren- 
ders these  duties  delightful,  else  this  sacred  position  and 
these  ties  would  soon  be  nothing  more  than  insup- 
portable burdens.  One  would  really  think  that  to  take 
to  one's  self  a  pretty  little  wife,  fresh  in  heart  and  pure 
in  mind,  and  to  condemn  one's  self  to  saw  wood  for  the 
rest  of  one's  days,  were  one  and  the  same  thing. 

Well,  my  dear  sisters,  have  you  any  knowledge  of 
those  who  have  painted  the  picture  in  these  gloomy 
colors  and  described  as  a  punishment  that  which 
should  be  a  reward?  They  are  the  husbands  with  a 
past  and  having  rheumatism.  Being  weary  and — how 
shall  I  put  it? — men  of  the  world,  they  choose  to  re- 
present marriage  as  an  asylum,  of  which  you  are  to 
be  the  angels.  No  doubt  to  be  an  angel  is  very  nice, 
but,  believe  me,  it  is  either  too  much  or  too  little.  Do 
not  seek  to  soar  so  high  all  at  once,  but,  instead,  enter 
on  a  short  apprenticeship.  It  will  be  time  enough  to 
don  the  crown  of  glory  when  you  have  no  longer  hair 
enough  to  dress  in  any  other  fashion. 

But,  O  husbands  with  a  past!  do  you  really  believe 
that  your  own  angelic  quietude  and  the  studied  aus- 
terity of  your  principles  are  taken  for  anything  else 
than  what  they  really  mean — exhaustion  ? 

You  wish  to  rest ;  well  and  good ;  but  it  is  wrong  in 
you  to  wish  everybody  else  about  you  to  rest  too;  to 
ask  for  withered  trees  and  faded  grass  in  May,  the 
lamps  turned  down  and  the  lamp-shades  doubled;  to 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

require  one  to  put  water  in  the  soup  and  to  refuse  one's 
self  a  glass  of  claret;  to  look  for  virtuous  wives  to  be 
highly  respectable  and  somewhat  wearisome  beings; 
dressing  neatly,  but  having  had  neither  poetry,  youth, 
gayety,  nor  vague  desires;  ignorant  of  everything,  un- 
desirous  of  learning  anything;  helpless,  thanks  to  the 
weighty  virtues  with  which  you  have  crammed  them; 
above  all,  to  ask  of  these  poor  creatures  to  bless  your 
wisdom,  caress  your  bald  forehead,  and  blush  with 
shame  at  the  echo  of  a  kiss. 

The  deuce!  but  that  is  a  pretty  state  of  things  for 
marriage  to  come  to. 

Delightful  institution!  How  far  are  your  sons,  who 
are  now  five-and-twenty  years  of  age,  in  the  right  in 
being  afraid  of  it!  Have  they  not  a  right  to  say  to 
you,  twirling  their  moustaches: 

"But,  my  dear  father,  wait  a  bit;  I  am  not  quite  ripe 
for  it!" 

"Yes;  but  it  is  a  splendid  match,  and  the  young  lady 
is  charming." 

"No  doubt,  but  I  feel  that  I  should  not  make  her 
happy.  I  am  not  old  enough — indeed,  I  am  not." 

And  when  the  young  man  is  seasoned  for  it,  how 
happy  she  will  be,  poor  little  thing! — a  ripe  husband, 
ready  to  fall  from  the  tree,  fit  to  be  put  away  in  the 
apple-loft!  What  happiness!  a  good  husband,  who 
the  day  after  his  marriage  will  piously  place  his  wife 
in  a  niche  and  light  a  taper  in  front  of  her;  then  take 
his  hat  and  go  off  to  spend  elsewhere  a  scrap  of  youth 
left  by  chance  at  the  bottom  of  his  pocket. 

Ah!  my  good  little  sisters  who  are  so  very  much 

[72] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

shocked  and  cry  "Shame!"  follow  our  reasoning  a  little 
further.  It  is  all  very  well  that  you  should  be  treated 
like  saints,  but  do  not  let  it  be  forgotten  that  you  are 
women,  and,  listen  to  me,  do  not  forget  it  yourselves. 

A  husband,  majestic  and  slightly  bald,  is  a  good 
thing;  a  young  husband  who  loves  you  and  eats  off  the 
same  plate  is  better.  If  he  rumples  your  dress  a  little, 
and  imprints  a  kiss,  in  passing,  on  the  back  of  your 
neck,  let  him.  When,  on  coming  home  from  a  ball,  he 
tears  out  the  pins,  tangles  the  strings,  and  laughs  like 
a  madman, -trying  to  see  whether  you  are  ticklish,  let 
him.  Do  not  cry  "Murder!"  if  his  moustache  pricks 
you,  but  think  that  it  is  all  because  at  heart  he  loves 
you  well.  He  worships  your  virtues;  is  it  surprising 
hence  that  he  should  cherish  their  outward  coverings? 
No  doubt  you  have  a  noble  soul ;  but  your  body  is  not 
therefore  to  be  despised ;  and  when  one  loves  fervently, 
one  loves  everything  at  the  same  time.  Do  not  be 
alarmed  if  in  the  evening,  when  the  fire  is  burning 
brightly  and  you  are  chatting  gayly  beside  it,  he 
should  take  off  one  of  your  shoes  and  stockings,  put 
your  foot  on  his  lap,  and  in  a  moment  of  forge tfulness 
carry  irreverence  so  far  as  to  kiss  it;  if  he  likes  to  pass 
your  large  tortoise-shell  comb  through  your  hair,  if  he 
selects  your  perfumes,  arranges  your  plaits,  and  sud- 
denly exclaims,  striking  his  forehead:  "Sit  down  there, 
darling;  I  have  an  idea  how  to  arrange  a  new  coiffure." 

If  he  turns  up  his  sleeves  and  by  chance  tangles 
your  curls,  where  really  is  the  harm  ?  Thank  Heaven 
if  in  the  marriage  which  you  have  hit  upon  you  find  a 
laughing,  joyous  side;  if  in  your  husband  you  find  the 

[73] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

loved  reader  of  the  pretty  romance  you  have  in  your 
pocket;  if,  while  wearing  cashmere  shawls  and  costly 
jewels  in  your  ears,  you  find  the  joys  of  a  real  inti- 
macy— that  is  delicious!  In  short,  reckon  yourself 
happy  if  in  your  husband  you  find  a  lover. 

But  before  accepting  my  theories,  ladies,  although 
in  your  heart  and  conscience  you  find  them  perfect, 
you  will  have  several  little  prejudices  to  overcome; 
above  all,  you  will  have  to  struggle  against  your  edu- 
cation, which  is  deplorable,  as  I  have  already  said,  but 
that  is  no  great  matter.  Remember  that  under  the 
pretext  of  education  you  have  been  stuffed,  my  dear 
sisters.  You  have  been  varnished  too  soon,  like  those 
pictures  painted  for  sales,  which  crack  all  over  six 
months  after  purchase.  Your  disposition  has  not  been 
properly  directed;  you  are  not  cultivated;  you  have 
been  stifled,  pruned;  you  have  been  shaped  like  those 
yew-trees  at  Versailles  which  represent  goblets  and 
birds.  Still,  you  are  women  at  the  bottom,  though  you 
no  longer  look  it. 

You  are  handed  over  to  us  men  swaddled,  distorted, 
stuffed  with  prejudices  and  principles,  heavy  as  paving- 
stones;  all  of  which  are  the  more  difficult  to  dislodge 
since  you  look  upon  them  as  sacred ;  you  are  started  on 
the  matrimonial  journey  with  so  much  luggage  reckoned 
as  indispensable;  and  at  the  first  station  your  husband, 
who  is  not  an  angel,  loses  his  temper  amidst  all  these 
encumbrances,  sends  it  all  to  the  devil  under  some  pre- 
text or  other,  lets  you  go  on  alone,  and  gets  into  another 
carriage.  I  do  not  require,  mark  me,  that  you  should 
be  allowed  to  grow  up  uncared  for,  that  good  or  evil 

[74] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  B^BE 

instincts  should  be  suffered  to  spring  up  in  you  any- 
how :  but  it  were  better  that  they  should  not  treat  your 
poor  mind  like  the  foot  of  a  well-born  Chinese  girl- 
that  they  should  not  enclose  it  in  a  porcelain  slipper. 

A  marriageable  young  lady  is  a  product  of  maternal 
industry,  which  takes  ten  years  to  fructify,  and  needs 
from  five  to  six  more  years  of  study  on  the  part  of  the 
husband  to  purify,  strip,  and  restore  to  its  real  shape. 
In  other  words,  it  takes  ten  years  to  make  a  bride  and 
six  years  at  least  to  turn  this  bride  into  a  woman  again. 
Admit  frankly  that  this  is  time  lost  as  regards  happi- 
ness, but  try  to  make  it  up  if  your  husband  will  per- 
mit you  to  do  so. 

The  sole  guaranty  of  fidelity  between  husband  and 
wife  is  love.  One  remains  side  by  side  with  a  fellow- 
traveller  only  so  long  as  one  experiences  pleasure  and 
happiness  in  his  company.  Laws,  decrees,  oaths,  may 
prevent  faithlessness,  or  at  least  punish  it,  but  they  can 
neither  hinder  nor  punish  intention.  But  as  regards 
love,  intention  and  deed  are  the  same. 

Is  it  not  true,  my  dear  sisters,  that  you  are  of  this 
opinion?  Do  not  you  thoroughly  understand  that  if 
love  is  absent  from  marriage  it  should,  on  the  contrary, 
be  its  real  pivot  ?  To  make  one's  self  lovable  is  the 
main  thing.  Believe  my  white  hairs  that  it  is  so,  and 
let  me  give  you  some  more  advice. 

Yes,  I  favor  marriage — I  do  not  conceal  it — the  happy 
marriage  in  which  we  cast  into  the  common  lot  our 
ideas  and  our  sorrows,  as  well  as  our  good-humor  and 
our  affections.  Suppress,  by  all  means,  in  this  partner- 
ship, gravity  and  affectation,  yet  add  a  sprinkling  of 

[751 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

gallantry  and  good-fellowship.  Preserve  even  in  your 
intimacy  that  coquetry  you  so  readily  assume  in  so- 
ciety. Seek  to  please  your  husband.  Be  amiable.  Con- 
sider that  your  husband  is  an  audience,  whose  sympa- 
thy you  must  conquer. 

In  your  manner  of  loving  mark  those  shades,  those 
feminine  delicacies,  which  double  the  price  of  things. 
Do  not  be  miserly,  but  rememlper  that  the  manner  in 
which  one  gives  adds  to  the  value  of  the  gift;  or  rather 
do  not  give — make  yourself  sought  after.  Think  of 
those  precious  jewels  that  are  arranged  with  such  art 
in  their  satin-lined  jewel-case;  never  forget  the  case. 
Let  your  nest  be  soft,  let  your  presence  be  felt  in  all  its 
thousand  trifles.  Put  a  little  of  yourself  into  the  order- 
ing of  everything.  Be  artistic,  delicate,  and  refined — 
you  can  do  so  without  effort — and  let  your  husband 
perceive  in  everything  that  surrounds  him,  from  the 
lace  on  the  curtains  to  the  perfume  that  you  use,  a 
wish  on  your  part  to  please  him. 

Do  not  say  to  him,  "I  love  you";  that  phrase  may 
perhaps  recall  to  him  a  recollection  or  two.  But  lead 
him  on  to  say  to  you,  "You  do  love  me,  then?"  and 
answer  "No,"  but  with  a  little  kiss  which  means  "  Yes." 
Make  him  feel  beside  you  the  present  to  be  so  pleasant 
that  the  past  will  fade  from  his  memory;  and  to  this 
end  let  nothing  about  you  recall  that  past,  for,  despite 
himself,  he  would  never  forgive  it  in  you.  Do  not  imi- 
tate the  women  whom  he  may  have  known,  nor  their 
head-dresses  or  toilettes ;  that  would  tend  to  make  him 
believe  he  has  not  changed  his  manner  of  life.  You 
have  in  yourself  another  kind  of  grace,  another  wit, 

[76] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

another  coquetry,  and  above  all  that  rejuvenescence  of 
heart  and  mind  which  those  women  have  never  had. 
You  have  an  eagerness  in  life,  a  need  of  expansion,  a 
freshness  of  impression  which  are — though  perhaps 
you  may  not  imagine  it — irresistible  charms.  Be  your- 
selves throughout,  and  you  will  be  for  this  loved  spouse 
a  novelty,  a  thousand  times  more  charming  in  his  eyes 
than  all  the  bygones  possible.  Conceal  from  him  nei- 
ther your  inclinations  nor  your  inexperience,  your  child- 
ish joys  or  your  childish  fears;  but  be  as  coquettish  with 
all  these  as  you  are  of  the  features  of  your  face,  of  your 
fine,  black  eyes  and  your  long,  fair  hair. 

Nothing  is  more  easily  acquired  than  a  little  adroit- 
ness; do  not  throw  yourself  at  his  head,  and  always 
have  confidence  in  yourself. 

Usually,  a  man  marries  when  he  thinks  himself  ruined ; 
when  he  feels  in  his  waistcoat  pocket — not  a  louis — he 
is  then  seasoned;  he  goes  at  once  before  the  registrar. 
But  let  me  tell  you,  sisters,  he  is  still  rich.  He  has 
another  pocket  of  which  he  knows  nothing,  the  fool! 
and  which  is  full  of  gold.  It  is  for  you  to  act  so  that 
he  shall  find  it  out  and  be  grateful  to  you  for  the  happi- 
ness he  has  had  in  finding  a  fortune. 

I  will  sum  up,  at  once,  as  time  is  flying  and  I 
should  not  like  you  to  be  late  for  dinner.  For  Heav- 
en's sake,  ladies,  tear  from  the  clutches  of  the  wom- 
en, whose  toilettes  you  do  very  wrong  in  imitating, 
your  husbands'  affections.  Are  you  not  more  refined, 
more  sprightly,  than  they?  Do  for  him  whom  you 
love  that  which  these  women  do  for  all  the  world;  do 
not  content  yourselves  with  being  virtuous — be  attract- 

[77] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

ive,  perfume  your  hair,  nurture  illusion  as  a  rare  plant 
in  a  golden  vase.  Cultivate  a  little  folly  when  prac- 
ticable ;  put  away  your  marriage-contract  and  look  at 
it  only  once  in  ten  years;  love  one  another  as  if  you 
had  not  sworn  to  do  so;  forget  that  there  are  bonds, 
contracts,  pledges;  banish  from  your  mind  the  recol- 
lection of  the  Mayor  and  his  scarf.  Sometimes  when 
you  are  alone  fancy  that  you  are  only  sweethearts; 
sister,  is  not  that  what  you  eagerly  desire  ? 

Ah!  let  candor  and  youth  flourish.  Let  us  love  and 
laugh  while  spring  blossoms.  Let  us  love  our  babies, 
the  little  dears,  and  kiss  our  wives.  Yes,  that  is  moral 
and  healthy;  the  world  is  not  a  shivering  convent,  mar- 
riage is  not  a  tomb.  Shame  on  those  who  find  in  it 
only  sadness,  boredom,  and  sleep. 

My  sisters,  my  sisters,  strive  to  be  real;  that  is  the 
blessing  I  wish  you. 


[78] 


CHAPTER  X 

MADAME'S  IMPRESSIONS 

\ 

*HE  marriage  ceremony  at  the  Town 
Hall  has,  no  doubt,  a  tolerable  im- 
portance; but  is  it  really  possible 
for  a  well-bred  person  to  regard  this 
importance  seriously?  I  have  been 
through  it;  I  have  undergone  like 
every  one  else  this  painful  formality, 
and  I  can  not  look  back  on  it  with- 
out feeling  a  kind  of  humiliation.  On  alighting  from 
the  carriage  I  descried  a  muddy  staircase;  walls  plac- 
arded with  bills  of  every  color,  and  in  front  of  one  of 
them  a  man  in  a  snuff-colored  coat,  bare-headed,  a 
pen  behind  his  ear,  and  papers  under  his  arm,  who  was 
rolling  a  cigarette  between  his  inky  fingers.  To  the 
left  a  door  opened  and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  low 
dark  room  in  which  a  dozen  fellows  belonging  to  the 
National  Guard  were  smoking  black  pipes.  My  first 
thought  on  entering  'this  barrack-room  was  that  I  had 
done  wisely  in  not  putting  on  my  gray  dress.  We  as- 
cended the  staircase  and  I  saw  a  long,  dirty,  dim 
passage,  with  a  number  of  half-glass  doors,  on  which  I 
read:  "Burials.  Turn  the  handle,"  "Expropriations," 
"Deaths.  Knock  loudly,"  "Inquiries,"  "Births," 
"Public  Health,"  etc.,  and  at  length  "Marriages." 

[79] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

We  entered  in  company  with  a  small  lad  who  was 
carrying  a  bottle  of  ink;  the  atmosphere  was  thick, 
heavy,  and  hot,  and  made  one  feel  ill.  Happily,  an 
attendant  in  a  blue  livery,  resembling  in  appearance 
the  soldiers  I  had  seen  below,  stepped  forward  to  ask 
us  to  excuse  him  for  not  having  at  once  ushered  us 
into  the  Mayor's  drawing-room,  which  is  no  other  than 
the  first-class  waiting-room.  I  darted  into  it  as  one 
jumps  into  a  cab  when  it  begins  to  rain  suddenly. 
Almost  immediately  two  serious  persons,  one  of  whom 
greatly  resembled  the  old  cashier  at  the  Petit-Saint- 
Thomas,  brought  in  two  registers,  and,  opening  them, 
wrote  for  some  time ;  only  stopping  occasionally  to  ask 
the  name,  age,  and  baptismal  names  of  both  of  us, 
then,  saying  to  themselves,  "Semi-colon  .  .  .  between 
the  aforesaid  .  .  .  fresh  paragraph,  etc.,  etc." 

When  he  had  done,  the  one  like  the  man  cashier  at 
the  Petit-Saint-Thomas  read  aloud,  through  his  nose, 
that  which  he  had  put  down,  and  of  which  I  could 
understand  nothing,  except  that  my  name  was  several 
times  repeated  as  well  as  that  of  the  other  "aforesaid." 
A  pen  was  handed  to  us  and  we  signed.  Voil&. 

"Is  it  over?"  said  I  to  Georges,  who  to  my  great  sur- 
prise was  very  pale. 

"Not  yet,  dear,"  said  he;  "we  must  now  go  into  the 
hall,  where  the  marriage  ceremony  takes  place." 

We  entered  a  large,  empty  hall  with  bare  walls;  a 
bust  of  the  Emperor  was  at  the  farther  end  over  a 
raised  platform,  some  armchairs,  and  some  benches  be- 
hind them,  and  dust  upon  everything.  I  must  have 
been  in  a  wrong  mood,  for  it  seemed  to  me  I  was  en- 

[80] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

tering  the  waiting-room  at  a  railway-station ;  nor  could 
I  help  looking  at  my  aunts,  who  were  very  merry,  over 
the  empty  chairs.  The  gentlemen,  who  no  doubt  af- 
fected not  to  think  as  we  did,  were,  on  the  contrary, 
all  very  serious,  and  I  could  discern  very  well  that 
Georges  was  actually  trembling.  At  length  the  Mayor 
came  in  by  a  little  door  and  appeared  before  us,  awk- 
ward and  podgy  in  his  dress-coat,  which  was  too  large 
for  him,  and  which  his  scarf  caused  to  rise  up.  He 
was  a  very  respectable  man  who  had  amassed  a  decent 
fortune  from  the  sale  of  iron  bedsteads;  yet  how  could 
I  bring  myself  to  think  that  this  embarrassed-looking, 
ill-dressed,  timid  little  creature  could,  with  a  word  hes- 
itatingly uttered,  unite  me  in  eternal  bonds?  More- 
over, he  had  a  fatal  likeness  to  my  piano-tuner. 

The  Mayor,  after  bowing  to  us,  as  a  man  bows  when 
without  his  hat,  and  in  a  white  cravat,  that  is  to 
say,  clumsily,  blew  his  nose,  to  the  great  relief  of  his 
two  arms  which  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with, 
and  briskly  began  the  little  ceremony.  He  hurriedly 
mumbled  over  several  passages  of  the  Code,  giving  the 
numbers  of  the  paragraphs;  and  I  was  given  con- 
fusedly to  understand  that  I  was  threatened  with  the  po- 
lice if  I  did  not  blindly  obey  all  the  orders  and  crotch- 
ets of  my  husband,  and  if  I  did  not  follow  wherever  he 
might  choose  to  take  me,  even  if  it  should  be  to  a  sixth 
floor  in  the  Rue-Saint-Victor.  A  score  of  times  I  was 
on  the  point  of  interrupting  the  Mayor,  and  saying, 
"Excuse  me,  Monsieur,  but  those  remarks  are  hardly 
polite  as  regards  myself,  and  you  yourself  must  know 
that  they  are  devoid  of  meaning." 
6  [81] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

But  I  restrained  myself  for  fear  I  might  frighten  the 
magistrate,  who  seemed  to  me  to  be  in  a  hurry  to  fin- 
ish. He  added,  however,  a  few  words  on  the  mutual 
duties  of  husband  and  wife — copartnership — pater- 
nity, etc.,  etc. ;  but  all  these  things,  which  would  perhaps 
have  made  me  weep  anywhere  else,  seemed  grotesque 
to  me,  and  I  could  not  forget  that  dozen  of  soldiers 
playing  piquet  round  the  stove,  and  that  row  of  doors 
on  which  I  had  read  "Public  Health,"  "Burials," 
"Deaths,"  "Expropriations,"  etc.  I  should  have  been 
aggrieved  at  this  dealer  in  iron  bedsteads  touching  on 
my  cherished  dreams  if  the  comic  side  of  the  situation 
had  not  absorbed  my  whole  attention,  and  if  a  mad 
wish  to  laugh  outright  had  not  seized  me. 

"Monsieur  Georges  .  .  .  ,  do  you  swear  to  take  for 
your  wife  Mademoiselle  .  .  .  ,"  said  the  Mayor,  bend- 
ing forward. 

My  husband  bowed  and  answered  "Yes"  in  a  very 
low  voice.  He  has  since  acknowledged  to  me  that  he 
never  felt  more  emotion  in  his  life  than  in  uttering  that 
"Yes." 

"Mademoiselle  Berthe  .  .  .  ,"  continued  the  magis- 
trate, turning  to  me,  "do  you  swear  to  take  for  your 
husband.  .  .  ." 

I  bowed,  with  a  smile,  and  said  to  myself:  "Cer- 
tainly; that  is  plain  enough;  I  came  here  for  that  ex- 
press purpose." 

That  was  all.    I  was  married ! 

My  father  and  my  husband  shook  hands  like  men 
who  had  not  met  for  twenty  years;  the  eyes  of  both 
were  moist.  As  for  myself,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 

[82] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

share  their  emotion.  I  was  very  hungry,  and  mamma 
and  I  had  the  carriage  pulled  up  at  the  pastry-cook's 
before  going  on  to  the  dressmaker's. 

The  next  morning  was  the  great  event,  and  when  I 
awoke  it  was  hardly  daylight.  I  opened  the  door 
leading  into  the  drawing-room;  there  my  dress  was 
spread  out  on  the  sofa,  the  veil  folded  beside  it,  my 
shoes,  my  wreath  in  a  large  white  box,  nothing  was 
lacking.  I  drank  a  glass  of  water.  I  was  nervous,  un- 
easy, happy,  trembling.  It  seemed  like  the  morning 
of  a  battle  when  one  is  sure  of  winning  a  medal.  I 
thought  of  neither  my  past  nor  my  future;  I  was 
wholly  taken  up  with  the  idea  of  the  ceremony,  of  that 
sacrament,  the  most  solemn  of  all,  of  the  oath  I  was 
about  to  take  before  God,  and  also  by  the  thought  of 
the  crowd  gathered  expressly  to  see  me  pass. 

We  breakfasted  early.  My  father  was  in  his  boots, 
his  trousers,  his  white  tie,  and  his  dressing-gown.  My 
mother  also  was  half  dressed.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
the  servants  took  greater  pains  in  waiting  on  me  and 
showed  me  more  respect.  I  even  remember  that 
Marie  said,  "The  hairdresser  has  come,  Madame." 
Madame !  Good  girl,  I  have  not  forgotten  it. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  eat;  my  throat  was 
parched  and  I  experienced  all  over  me  shudders  of  im- 
patience, something  like  the  sensation  one  has  when 
one  is  very  thirsty  and  is  waiting  for  the  sugar  to  melt. 
The  tones  of  the  organ  seemed  to  haunt  me,  and  the 
wedding  of  Emma  and  Louis  recurred  to  my  mind.  I 
dressed;  the  hairdresser  called  me  "Madame  "  too,  and 
arranged  my  hair  so  nicely  that  I  said,  I  remember , 

[83] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"Things  are  beginning  well;  this  coiffure  is  a  good 
omen."  I  stopped  Marie,  who  wished  to  lace  me 
tighter  than  usual.  I  know  that  white  makes  one  look 
stouter  and  that  Marie  was  right;  but  I  was  afraid 
lest  it  should  send  the  blood  to  my  head.  I  have  al- 
ways had  a  horror  of  brides  who  looked  as  if  they  had 
just  got  up  from  table.  Religious  emotions  should  be 
too  profound  to  be  expressed  by  anything  save  pallor. 
It  is  silly  to  blush  under  certain  circumstances. 

When  I  was  dressed  I  entered  the  drawing-room  to 
have  a  little  more  room  and  to  spread  out  my  trailing 
skirts.  My  father  and  Georges  were  already  there, 
talking  busily. 

"Have  the  carriages  come? — yes — and  about  the 
Salutaris  ? — very  good,  then,  you  will  see  to  everything 
—and  the  marriage  coin — certainly,  I  have  the  ring — 
Mon  Dieu!  where  is  my  certificate  of  confession? — 
Ah!  good,  I  left  it  in  the  carriage." 

They  were  saying  all  this  hurriedly  and  gesticulat- 
ing like  people  having  great  business  on  hand.  When 
Georges  caught  sight  of  me  he  kissed  my  hand,  and 
while  the  maids  kneeling  about  me  were  settling  the 
skirt,  and  the  hairdresser  was  clipping  the  tulle  of  the 
veil,  he  said  in  a  husky  voice,  "You  look  charming, 
dear." 

He  was  not  thinking  in  the  least  of  what  he  was  say- 
ing, and  I  answered  mechanically: 

"Do  you  think  so?  Not  too  short,  the  veil,  Mon- 
sieur Silvani.  Don't  forget  the  bow  on  the  bodice, 
Marie." 

When  one  has  to  look  after  everything,  one  needs  all 

[84] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

one's  wits.  However,  Georges'  husky  voice  recurred 
to  me,  and  I  said  to  myself,  "I  am  sure  that  he  has 
caught  a  cold;  it  is  plain  that  he  has  had  his  hair 
cut  too  short." 

I  soon  got  at  the  true  state  of  the  case. 

"You  have  a  cold,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  my  father. 

"Don't  speak  of  it,"  he  answered  in  a  low  voice. 
And  still  lower,  and  with  a  somewhat  embarrassed 
smile:  "Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  give  me  an  extra 
pocket-handkerchief?  I  have  but  one " 

"Certainly,  my  dear  boy." 

"Thanks,  very  much." 

It  was  a  trifle,  to  be  sure,  but  I  felt  vexed,  and  I  re- 
member that,  when  going  downstairs  with  them  hold- 
ing up  my  train  behind  me,  I  said  to  myself,  "I  do 
hope  that  he  does  not  sneeze  at  the  altar." 

I  soon  forgot  all  about  it.  We  got  into  the  carriage ; 
I  felt  that  every  one  was  looking  at  me,  and  I  caught 
sight  of  groups  of  spectators  in  the  street  beyond  the 
carriage  gates.  What  I  felt  is  impossible  to  describe, 
but  it  was  something  delightful.  The  sound  of  the 
beadles'  canes  on  the  pavement  will  forever  reecho  in 
my  heart.  We  halted  for  a  moment  on  the  red  drug- 
get. The  great  organ  poured  forth  the  full  tones  of 
a  triumphal  march;  thousands  of  eager  faces  turned 
toward  me,  and  there  in  the  background,  amidst  an 
atmosphere  of  sunshine,  incense,  velvet,  and  gold,  were 
two  gilt  armchairs  for  us  to  seat  ourselves  on  before 
the  altar. 

I  do  not  know  why  an  old  engraving  in  my  father's 
study  crossed  my  mind.  It  represents  the  entry  of 

[85] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Alexander  the  Great  into  Babylon;  he  is  on  an  ele- 
phant which  is  glittering  with  precious  stones.  You 
must  know  it.  Only,  Alexander  was  a  heathen  who 
had  many  things  to  reproach  himself  with,  while  I  was 
not. 

God  smiled  on  me,  and  with  His  paternal  hand 
invited  me  to  seat  myself  in  His  house,  on  His  red 
drugget,  in  His  gilt  armchair.  The  heavens,  full  of 
joy,  made  music  for  me,  and  on  high,  through  the 
glittering  stained-glass  windows,  the  archangels,  full  of 
kind  feeling,  whispered  as  they  watched  me.  As  I  ad- 
vanced, heads  were  bent  as  a  wheat-field  bends  be- 
neath the  breeze.  My  friends,  my  relatives,  my  en- 
emies, bowed  to  us,  and  I  saw — for  one  sees  everything 
in  spite  of  one's  self  on  these  solemn  occasions — that 
they  did  not  think  that  I  looked  ugly.  On  reaching 
the  gilt  chair,  I  bent  forward  with  restrained  eagerness 
— my  chignon  was  high,  revealing  my  neck,  which  is 
passable — and  thanked  the  Lord.  The  organ  ceased 
its  triumphal  song  and  I  could  hear  my  poor  mother 
bursting  into  tears  beside  me.  Oh!  I  understand 
what  a  mother's  heart  must  feel  during  such  a  cere- 
mony. While  watching  with  satisfaction  the  clergy 
who  were  solemnly  advancing,  I  noticed  Georges;  he 
seemed  irritated;  he  was  stiff,  upright,  his  nostrils  di- 
lated, and  his  lips  set.  I  have  always  been  rather 
vexed  at  him  for  not  having  been  a  little  more  sensible 
to  what  I  was  experiencing  that  day,  but  men  do  not 
understand  this  kind  of  poetry. 

The  discourse  of  his  Reverence  who  married  us  was 
a  masterpiece,  and  was  delivered,  moreover,  with  that 

[86] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

unction,  that  dignity,  that  persuasive  charm  peculiar  to 
him.  He  spoke  of  our  two  families  "in  which  pious 
belief  was  hereditary,  like  honor."  You  could  have 
heard  a  pin  drop,  such  was  the  attention  with  which 
the  prelate's  voice  was  listened  to.  Then  at  one  point 
he  turned  toward  me,  and  gave  me  to  understand  with 
a  thousand  delicacies  that  I  was  wedding  one  of  the 
noblest  officers  in  the  army.  "Heaven  smiles,"  said 
he,  "on  the  warrior  who  places  at  the  service  of  his 
country  a  sword  blessed  by  God,  and  who,  when  he 
darts  into  the  fray,  can  place  his  hand  upon  his  heart 
and  shout  to  the  enemy  that  noble  war-cry,  'I  believe!'" 
How  well  that  was  turned !  What  grandeur  in  this  holy 
eloquence!  A  thrill  ran  through  the  assembly.  But 
that  was  not  all.  His  Lordship  then  addressed  Georges 
in  a  voice  as  soft  and  unctuous  as  it  had  before  been 
ringing  and  enthusiastic. 

"Monsieur,  you  are  about  to  take  as  your  companion 
a  young  girl" — I  scarcely  dare  recall  the  graceful  and 
delicate  things  that  his  Reverence  said  respecting  me — 
"piously  reared  by  a  Christian  mother  who  has  been 
able  to  share  with  her,  if  I  may  say  so,  all  the  virtues 
of  her  heart,  all  the  charms  of  her  mind."  (Mamma 
was  sobbing.)  "She  will  love  her  husband  as  she  has 
loved  her  father,  that  father  full  of  kindness,  who, 
from  the  cradle,  implanted  in  her  the  sentiments  of 
nobility  and  disinterestedness  which — J:  (Papa  smiled 
despite  himself.)  "Her  father,  whose  name  is  known  to 
the  poor,  and  who  in  the  house  of  God  has  his  place 
marked  among  the  elect. "  (Since  his  retirement,  papa 
has  become  churchwarden.)  "And  you,  Monsieur,  will 

[87] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

respect,  I  feel  certain,  so  much  purity,  such  ineffable 
candor" — I  felt  my  eyes  grow  moist — "and  without 
forgetting  the  physical  and  perishable  charms  of  this 
angel  whom  God  bestows  upon  you,  you  will  thank 
Heaven  for  those  qualities  a  thousand  times  more 
precious  and  more  lasting  contained  in  her  heart  and 
her  mind." 

We  were  bidden  to  stand  up,  and  stood  face  to  face 
with  one  another  like  the  divine  spouses  in  the  picture 
of  Raphael.  We  exchanged  the  golden  ring,  and  his 
Reverence,  in  a  slow,  grave  voice,  uttered  some  Latin 
words,  the  sense  of  which  I  did  not  understand,  but 
which  greatly  moved  me,  for  the  prelate's  hand,  white, 
delicate,  and  transparent,  seemed  to  be  blessing  me. 
The  censer,  with  its  bluish  smoke,  swung  by  the  hands 
of  children,  shed  in  the  air  its  holy  perfume.  What  a 
day,  great  heavens!  All  that  subsequently  took  place 
grows  confused  in  my  memory.  I  was  dazzled,  I  was 
transported.  I  can  remember,  however,  the  bonnet 
with  white  roses  in  which  Louise  had  decked  herself 
out.  Strange  it  is  how  some  people  are  quite  want- 
ing in  taste! 

Going  to  the  vestry,  I  leaned  on  the  General's  arm, 
and  it  was  then  that  I  saw  the  spectators'  faces.  All 
seemed  touched. 

Soon  they  thronged  round  to  greet  me.  The  vestry 
was  full,  they  pushed  and  pressed  round  me,  and  I  re- 
plied to  all  these  smiles,  to  all  these  compliments,  by  a 
slight  bow  in  which  religious  emotion  peeped  forth  in 
spite  of  me.  I  felt  conscious  that  something  solemn 
had  just  taken  place  before  God  and  man;  I  felt  con- 

[881 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

scious  of  being  linked  in  eternal  bonds.  I  was  mar- 
ried! 

By  a  strange  fancy  I  then  fell  to  thinking  of  the  piti- 
ful ceremony  of  the  day  before.  I  compared — God  for- 
give me  for  doing  so ! — the  ex-dealer  in  iron  bedsteads, 
ill  at  ease  in  his  dress-coat,  to  the  priest;  the  trivial 
and  commonplace  words  of  the  mayor,  with  the  elo- 
quent outbursts  of  the  venerable  prelate.  What  a  les- 
son! There  earth,  here  heaven;  there  the  coarse 
prose  of  the  man  of  business,  here  celestial  poesy. 

Georges,  to  whom  I  lately  spoke  about  this,  said: 

"But,  my  dear,  perhaps  you  don't  know  that  mar- 
riage at  the  Town  Hall  before  the  registrar  is  gratis, 

while "  I  put  my  hand  over  his  mouth  to  prevent 

•him  from  finishing;  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  was  about 
to  utter  some  impiety. 

Gratis,  gratis.  That  is  exactly  what  I  find  so  very 
unseemly. 


[89] 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  WEDDING  NIGHT 

'HANKS  to  country  manners  and  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion,  the  guests 
had  left  fairly  early.  Almost  every 
one  had  shaken  hands  with  me, 
some  with  a  cunning  smile  and 
others  with  a  foolish  one,  some  with 
an  officious  gravity  that  suggested 
condolence,  and  others  with  a  stupid 
cordiality  verging  on  indiscretion. 

General  de  S.  and  the  prefect,  two  old  friends  of  the 
family,  were  lingering  over  a  game  of  6carte,  and 
frankly,  in  spite  of  all  the  good-will  I  bore  toward 
them,  I  should  have  liked  to  see  them  at  the  devil, 
so  irritable  did  I  feel  that  evening. 

All  this  took  place,  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  you,  the 
very  day  of  my  marriage,  and  I  was  really  rather 
tired.  Since  morning  I  had  been  overwhelmed  by  an 
average  of  about  two  hundred  people,  all  actuated  by 
the  best  intentions,  but  as  oppressive  as  the  atmos- 
phere before  a  storm.  Since  morning  I  had  kept  up  a 
perpetual  smile  for  all,  and  then  the  good  village  priest 
who  had  married  us  had  thought  it  his  duty,  in  a  very 
neat  sermon  so  far  as  the  rest  of  it  went,  to  compare 
me  to  Saint  Joseph,  and  that  sort  of  thing  is  annoying 

[90] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

when  one  is  Captain  in  a  lancer  regiment.  The  Mayor, 
who  had  been  good  enough  to  bring  his  register  to  the 
chateau,  had  for  his  part  not  been  able,  on  catching 
sight  of  the  prefect,  to  resist  the  pleasure  of  crying, 
"Long  live  the  Emperor!"  On  quitting  the  church 
they  had  fired  off  guns  close  to  my  ears  and  presented 
me  with  an  immense  bouquet.  Finally — I  tell  you 
this  between  ourselves — since  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning  I  had  had  on  a  pair  of  boots  rather  too  tight 
for  me,  and  at  the  moment  this  narrative  begins  it 
was  about  half  an  hour  after  midnight. 

I  had  spoken  to  every  one  except  my  dear  little 
wife,  whom  they  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  keeping 
away  from  me.  Once,  however,  on  ascending  the 
steps,  I  had  squeezed  her  hand  on  the  sly.  Even  then 
this  rash  act  had  cost  me  a  look,  half  sharp  and  half 
sour,  from  my  mother-in-law,  which  had  recalled  me  to 
a  true  sense  of  the  situation.  If,  Monsieur,  you  hap- 
pen to  have  gone  through  a  similar  day  of  violent  effu- 
sion and  general  expansion,  you  will  agree  with  me 
that  during  no  other  moment  of  your  life  were  you 
more  inclined  to  irritability. 

What  can  you  say  to  the  cousins  who  kiss  you,  to 
the  aunts  who  cling  round  your  neck  and  weep  into 
your  waistcoat,  to  all  these  smiling  faces  ranged  one 
beyond  the  other  before  you,  to  all  those  eyes  which 
have  been  staring  at  you  for  twelve  hours  past,  to  all 
those  outbursts  of  affection  which  you  have  not  sought, 
but  which  claim  a  word  from  the  heart  in  reply? 

At  the  end  of  such  a  day  one's  very  heart  is  foun- 
dered. You  say  to  yourself:  "Come,  is  it  all  over?  Is 

[91] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

there  yet  a  tear  to  wipe  away,  a  compliment  to  receive, 
an  agitated  hand  to  clasp?  Is  every  one  satisfied? 
Have  they  seen  enough  of  the  bridegroom?  Does 
any  one  want  any  more  of  him  ?  Can  I  at  length  give 
a  thought  to  my  own  happiness,  think  of  my  dear  little 
wife  who  is  waiting  for  me  with  her  head  buried  in 
the  folds  of  her  pillow?  Who  is  waiting  for  me!" 
That  flashes  through  your  mind  all  at  once  like  a 
train  of  powder.  You  had  not  thought  of  it.  During 
the  whole  of  the  day  this  luminous  side  of  the  question 
had  remained  veiled,  but  the  hour  approaches,  at  this 
very  moment  the  silken  laces  of  her  bodice  are  swish- 
ing as  they  are  unloosed;  she  is  blushing,  agitated,  and 
dare  not  look  at  herself  in  the  glass  for  fear  of  noting 
her  own  confusion.  Her  aunt  and  her  mother,  her 
cousin  and  her  bosom  friend,  surround  and  smile  at 
her,  and  it  is  a  question  of  who  shall  unhook  her  dress, 
remove  the  orange-blossoms  from  her  hair,  and  have 
the  last  kiss. 

Good!  now  come  the  tears;  they  are  wiped  away 
and  followed  by  kisses.  The  mother  whispers  some- 
thing in  her  ear  about  a  sacrifice,  the  future,  necessity, 
obedience,  and  finds  means  to  mingle  with  these  simple 
but  carefully  prepared  words  the  hope  of  celestial  ben- 
edictions and  of  the  intercession  of  a  dove  or  two  hid- 
den among  the  curtains. 

The  poor  child  does  not  understand  anything  about 
it,  except  it  be  that  something  unheard-of  is  about  to 
take  place,  that  the  young  man — she  dare  not  call  him 
anything  else  in  her  thoughts — is  about  to  appear  as  a 
conqueror  and  address  her  in  wondrous  phrases,  the 

[92] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

very  anticipation  of  which  makes  her  quiver  with  im- 
patience and  alarm.  The  child  says  not  a  word — she 
trembles,  she  weeps,  she  quivers  like  a  partridge  in  a 
furrow.  The  last  words  of  her  mother,  the  last  fare- 
wells of  her  family,  ring  confusedly  in  her  ears,  but  it 
is  in  vain  that  she  strives  to  seize  on  their  meaning;  her 
mind — where  is  that  poor  mind  of  hers?  She  really 
does  not  know,  but  it  is  no  longer  under  her  control. 

"Ah!  Captain,"  I  said  to  myself,  "what  joys  are 
hidden  beneath  these  alarms,  for  she  loves  you.  Do 
you  remember  that  kiss  which  she  let  you  snatch  com- 
ing out  of  church  that  evening  when  the  Abbe  What's- 
his-name  preached  so  well,  and  those  hand-squeez- 
ings  and  those  softened  glances,  and — happy  Captain, 
floods  of  love  will  inundate  you;  she  is  awaiting  you!" 

Here  I  gnawed  my  moustache,  I  tore  my  gloves  off 
and  then  put  them  on  again,  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  little  drawing-room,  I  shifted  the  clock,  which 
stood  on  the  mantel-shelf;  I  could  not  keep  still.  I 
had  already  experienced  such  sensations  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  assault  on  the  Malakoff.  Suddenly  the 
General,  who  was  still  going  on  with  his  eternal  game 
at  ecarte  with  the  prefect,  turned  round. 

"What  a  noise  you  are  making,  Georges!"  said  he. 
;<  Cards,  if  you  please,  Prefect." 

"But,  General,  the  fact  is  that  I  feel,  I  will  not  con- 
ceal from  you,  a  certain  degree  of  emotion  and ' 

' '  The  king — one — and  four  trumps.  My  dear  friend , 
you  are  not  in  luck,"  said  he  to  the  prefect,  and  pull- 
ing up  with  an  effort  the  white  waistcoat  covering  his 
stomach,  he  slipped  some  louis  which  were  on  the  table 

[93] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

into  his  fob;  then  bethinking  himself,  he  added:  "In 
fact,  my  poor  fellow,  you  think  yourself  bound  to  keep 
us  company.  It  is  late  and  we  have  three  leagues  to 
cover  from  here  to  B.  Every  one  has  left,  too." 

At  last  he  departed.  I  can  still  see  his  thick  neck, 
the  back  of  which  formed  a  roll  of  fat  over  his  rib- 
bon of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  I  heard  him  get  into 
his  carriage;  he  was  still  laughing  at  intervals.  I 
could  have  thrashed  him. 

"At  last!"  I  said  to  myself;  "at  last!"  I  mechani- 
cally glanced  at  myself  in  the  glass.  I  was  crimson, 
and  my  boots,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  were  horribly  un- 
comfortable. I  was  furious  that  such  a  grotesque  de- 
tail as  tight  boots  should  at  such  a  moment  have 
power  to  attract  my  attention;  but  I  promised  to  be 
sincere,  and  I  am  telling  you  the  whole  truth. 

Just  then  the  clock  struck  one,  and  my  mother-in- 
law  made  her  appearance.  Her  eyes  were  red,  and 
her  ungloved  hand  was  crumpling  up  a  handkerchief 
visibly  moistened. 

At  the  sight  of  her  my  first  movement  was  one  of  im- 
patience. I  said  to  myself,  "I  am  in  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  of  it  at  least." 

Indeed,  Madame  de  C.  sank  down  on  a  couch,  took 
my  hand,  and  burst  into  tears.  Amid  her  sobs  she 
ejaculated,  "Georges — my  dear  boy — Georges — my 
son." 

I  felt  that  I  could  not  rise  to  the  occasion.  "Come, 
Captain,"  I  said  to  myself,  "a  tear;  squeeze  forth  a 
tear.  You  can  not  get  out  of  this  becomingly  without 
a  tear,  or  it  will  be,  'My  son-in-law,  it  is  all  off." 

[94] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

When  this  stupid  phrase,  derived  from  I  do  not 
know  where — a  Palais  Royal  farce,  I  believe — had 
once  got  into  my  head,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  get 
rid  of  it,  and  I  felt  bursts  of  wild  merriment  welling  up 
to  my  lips. 

"Calm  yourself,  Madame;  calm  yourself." 

"How  can  I,  Georges?    Forgive  me,  my  dear  boy." 

"Can  you  doubt  me,  Madame?" 

I  felt  that  "Madame"  was  somewhat  cold,  but  I  was 
afraid  of  making  Madame  de  C.  seem  old  by  calling  her 
"mother."  I  knew  her  to  be  somewhat  of  a  coquette. 

"Oh,  I  do  not  doubt  your  affection;  go,  my  dear 
boy,  go  and  make  her  happy;  yes,  oh,  yes!  Fear 
nothing  on  my  account;  I  am  strong." 

Nothing  is  more  unbearable  than  emotion  when  one 
does  not  share  it.  I  murmured  "Mother!"  feeling  that 
after  all  she  must  appreciate  such  an  outburst;  then 
approaching,  I  kissed  her,  and  made  a  face  in  spite  of 
myself — such  a  salt  and  disagreeable  flavor  had  been 
imparted  to  my  mother-in-law's  countenance  by  the 
tears  she  had  shed. 


[95] 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  HONEYMOON 

'T  had  been  decided  that  we  should 
pass  the  first  week  of  our  honey- 
moon at  Madame  de  C.'s  chateau. 
A  little  suite  of  apartments  had  been 
fitted  up  for  us,  upholstered  in  blue 
chintz,  delightfully  cool-looking.  The 
term  "cool-looking"  may  pass  here 
for  a  kind  of  bad  joke,  for  in  reality 
it  was  somewhat  damp  in  this  little  paradise,  owing 
to  the  freshly  repaired  walls. 

A  room  had  been  specially  reserved  for  me,  and 
it  was  thither  that,  after  heartily  kissing  my  dear 
mother-in-law,  I  flew  up  the  stairs  four  at  a  time.  On 
an  armchair,  drawn  in  front  of  the  fire,  was  spread  out 
my  maroon  velvet  dressing-gown  and  close  beside  it 
were  my  slippers.  I  could  not  resist,  and  I  frantically 
pulled  off  my  boots.  Be  that  as  it  may,  my  heart 
was  full  of  love,  and  a  thousand  thoughts  were  whirl- 
ing through  my  head  in  frightful  confusion.  I  made 
an  effort,  and  reflected  for  a  moment  on  my  position. 
"Captain,"  said  I  to  myself,  "the  approaching  mo- 
ment is  a  solemn  one.  On  the  manner  in  which  you 
cross  the  threshold  of  married  life  depends  your  future 
happiness.  It  is  not  a  small  matter  to  lay  the  first 

[96] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

stone  of  an  edifice.  A  husband's  first  kiss" — I  felt  a 
thrill  run  down  my  back — "a  husband's  first  kiss  is 
like  the  fundamental  axiom  that  serves  as  a  basis  for  a 
whole  volume.  Be  prudent,  Captain.  She  is  there 
beyond  that  wall,  the  fair  young  bride,  who  is  await- 
ing you;  her  ear  on  the  alert,  her  neck  outstretched, 
she  is  listening  to  each  of  your  movements.  At  every 
creak  of  the  boards  she  shivers,  dear  little  soul." 

As  I  said  this,  I  took  off  my  coat  and  my  cravat. 
"Your  line  of  conduct  lies  before  you  ready  traced 
out,"  I  added;  "be  impassioned  with  due  restraint, 
calm  with  some  warmth,  good,  kind,  tender;  but  at 
the  same  time  let  her  have  a  glimpse  of  the  vivacities 
of  an  ardent  affection  and  the  attractive  aspect  of  a 
robust  temperament."  Suddenly  I  put  my  coat  on 
again.  I  felt  ashamed  to  enter  my  wife's  room  in  a 
dressing-gown  and  night  attire.  Was  it  not  equal  to 
saying  to  her:  "My  dear,  I  am  at  home;  see  how  I 
make  myself  so"?  It  was  making  a  show  of  rights 
which  I  did  not  yet  possess,  so  I  rearranged  my  dress, 
and  after  the  thousand  details  of  a  careful  toilette  I 
approached  the  door  and  gave  three  discreet  little  taps. 
Oh!  I  can  assure  you  that  I  was  all  in  a  tremble,  and 
my  heart  was  beating  so  violently  that  I  pressed  my 
hand  to  my  chest  to  restrain  its  throbs. 

She  answered  nothing,  and  after  a  moment  of  an- 
guish I  decided  to  knock  again.  I  felt  tempted  to 
say  in  an  earnest  voice,  "It  is  I,  dear;  may  I  come 
in?"  But  I  also  felt  that  it  was  necessary  that  this 
phrase  should  be  delivered  in  the  most  perfect  fashion, 
and  I  was  afraid  of  marring  its  effect;  I  remained, 
7  [97] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

therefore,  with  a  smile  upon  my  lips  as  if  she  had  been 
able  to  see  me,  and  I  twirled  my  moustache,  which, 
without  affectation,  I  had  slightly  perfumed. 

I  soon  heard  a  faint  cough,  which  seemed  to  answer 
me  and  to  grant  me  admission.  Women,  you  see,  pos- 
sess that  exquisite  tact,  that  extreme  delicacy,  which  is 
wholly  lacking  to  us.  Could  one  say  more  cleverly,  in 
a  more  charming  manner,  "Come,  I  await  you,  my 
love,  my  spouse"?  Saint  Peter  would  not  have  hit 
upon  it.  That  cough  was  heaven  opening  to  me.  I 
turned  the  handle,  the  door  swept  noiselessly  over  the 
soft  carpet.  I  was  in  my  wife's  room. 

A  delightful  warmth  met  me  face  to  face,  and  I 
breathed  a  vague  perfume  of  violets  and  orris-root,  or 
something  akin,  with  which  the  air  of  the  room  was 
laden.  A  charming  disorder  was  apparent,  the  ball 
dress  was  spread  upon  a  lounging-chair,  two  candles 
were  discreetly  burning  beneath  rose-colored  shades. 

I  drew  near  the  bed  where  Louise  was  reposing, 
on  the  farther  side  of  it,  with  her  face  to  the  wall, 
and  her  head  buried  in  the  pillows.  Motionless  and 
with  closed  eyes  she  appeared  to  be  asleep,  but  her 
heightened  color  betrayed  her  emotion.  I  must  ac- 
knowledge that  at  that  moment  I  felt  the  most  embar- 
rassed of  mankind.  I  resolved  humbly  to  request  hos- 
pitality. That  would  be  delicate  and  irreproachable. 
Oh!  you  who  have  gone  through  these  trials,  search 
your  memories  and  recall  that  ridiculous  yet  delight- 
ful moment,  that  moment  of  mingled  anguish  and  joy, 
when  it  becomes  necessary,  without  any  preliminary  re- 
hearsal, to  play  the  most  difficult  of  parts,  and  to  avoid 

[98] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

the  ridicule  which  is  grinning  at  you  from  the  folds  of 
the  curtains;  to  be  at  one  and  the  same  time  a  diplo- 
matist, a  barrister,  and  a  man  of  action,  and  by  skill, 
tact,  and  eloquence  render  the  sternest  of  realities 
acceptable  without  banishing  the  most  ideal  of 
dreams. 

I  bent  over  the  bed,  and  hi  the  softest  notes,  the 
sweetest  tones  my  voice  could  compass,  I  murmured, 
"Well,  darling?" 

One  does  what  one  can  at  such  moments;  I  could 
not  think  of  anything  better,  and  yet,  Heaven  knows,  I 
had  tried. 

No  reply,  and  yet  she  was  awake.  I  will  admit  that 
my  embarrassment  was  doubled.  I  had  reckoned — 
I  can  say  as  much  between  ourselves — upon  more  con- 
fidence and  greater  yielding.  I  had  calculated  on  a 
moment  of  effusiveness,  full  of  modesty  and  alarm,  it  is 
true,  but,  at  any  rate,  I  had  counted  upon  such  effu- 
siveness, and  I  found  myself  strangely  disappointed. 
The  silence  chilled  me. 

"You  sleep  very  soundly,  dear.  Yet  I  have  a  great 
many  things  to  say;  won't  you  talk  a  little?" 

As  I  spoke  I  touched  her  shoulder  with  the  tip  of 
my  finger,  and  saw  her  suddenly  shiver. 

"Come,"  said  I;  "must  I  kiss  you  to  wake  you  up 
altogether?" 

She  could  not  help  smiling,  and  I  saw  that  she  was 
blushing. 

"Oh!  do  not  be  afraid,  dear;  I  will  only  kiss  the 
tips  of  your  fingers  gently,  like  that,"  and  seeing  that 
she  let  me  do  so,  I  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

[99] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

She  gave  a  little  cry.  I  had  sat  down  on  her  foo*, 
which  was  straying  beneath  the  bedclothes. 

"Please  let  me  go  to  sleep,"  she  said,  with  a  sup- 
plicating air;  "I  am  so  tired." 

"And  how  about  myself,  my  dear  child?  I  am 
ready  to  drop.  See,  I  am  in  evening  dress,  and  have 
not  a  pillow  to  rest  my  head  on,  not  one,  except  this 
one."  I  had  her  hand  in  mine,  and  I  squeezed  it 
while  kissing  it.  "Would  you  be  very  vexed  to  lend 
this  pillow  to  your  husband  ?  Come,  are  you  going  to 
refuse  me  a  little  bit  of  room  ?  I  am  not  troublesome, 
I  can  assure  you." 

I  thought  I  noted  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and,  impatient 
to  escape  from  my  delicate  position,  in  a  moment  I 
rose,  and,  while  continuing  to  converse,  hastelessly  and 
noiselessly  undressed.  I  was  burning  my  ships.  When 
my  ships  were  burned  there  was  absolutely  nothing 
left  for  me  to  do  but  to  get  into  bed. 

Louise  gave  a  little  cry,  then  she  threw  herself  tow- 
ard the  wall,  and  I  heard  a  kind  of  sob. 

I  had  one  foot  in  bed  and  the  other  out,  and  re- 
mained petrified,  a  smile  on  my  lips,  and  supporting 
myself  wholly  on  one  arm. 

"What  is  the  matter — dear;  what  is  the  matter? 
Forgive  me  if  I  have  offended  you." 

I  brought  my  head  closer  to  her  own,  and,  while  in- 
haling the  perfume  of  her  hair,  whispered  in  her  ear: 

"I  love  you,  my  dear  child;  I  love  you,  little  wife; 
don't  you  think  that  I  do  ?" 

She  turned  toward  me  her  eyes,  moistened  with  tears, 
and  said  in  a  voice  broken  by  emotion  and  so  soft,  so 

[100] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  BEB^J 

low,  so  tender,  that  it  penetrated  to  the  marrow  of  my 
bones: 

"I  love  you,  too.    But  let  me  sleep!" 

"  Sleep,  my  loved  angel ;  sleep  fearlessly,  my  love.  I 
am  going  away;  sleep  while  I  watch  over  you,"  I  said. 

Upon  my  honor  I  felt  a  sob  rise  to  my  throat,  and 
yet  the  idea  that  my  last  remark  was  not  badly  turned 
shot  through  my  brain.  I  pulled  the  coverings  over  her 
again  and  tucked  her  up  like  a  child.  I  can  still  see 
her  rosy  face  buried  in  that  big  pillow,  the  curls  of  fair 
hair  escaping  from  under  the  lace  of  her  little  nightcap. 
With  her  left  hand  she  held  the  counterpane  close  up 
under  her  chin,  and  I  saw  on  one  of  her  fingers  the 
new  and  glittering  wedding-ring  I  had  given  her  that 
morning.  She  was  charming,  a  bird  nestling  in  cotton- 
wool, a  rosebud  fallen  amid  snow.  When  she  was  set- 
tled I  bent  over  her  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"I  am  repaid,"  said  I  to  her,  laughing;  "are  you 
comfortable,  Louise?" 

She  did  not  answer,  but  her  eyes  met  mine  and  I 
saw  in  them  a  smile  which  seemed  to  thank  me,  but  a 
smile  so  subtle  that  in  any  other  circumstances  I  should 
have  seen  a  shadow  of  raillery  in  it. 

"Now,  Captain,  settle  yourself  in  this  armchair  and 
good-night!"  I  said  this  to  myself,  and  I  made  an  ef- 
fort to  raise  my  unfortunate  foot  which  I  had  forgot- 
ten, a  heroic  effort,  but  it  was  impossible  to  accom- 
plish it.  The  leg  was  so  benumbed  that  I  could  not 
move  it.  As  well  as  I  could  I  hoisted  myself  upon  the 
other  leg,  and,  hobbling,  reached  my  armchair  without 
appearing  too  lame.  The  room  seemed  to  me  twice  as 

[101] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

wide  to  cross  as  the  Champ  de  Mars,  for  hardly  had  I 
taken  a  step  in  its  chilly  atmosphere — the  fire  had  gone 
out,  it  was  April,  and  the  chateau  overlooked  the  Loire 
— when  the  cold  reminded  me  of  the  scantiness  of  my 
costume.  What!  to  cross  the  room  before  that  angel, 
who  was  doubtless  watching  me,  in  the  most  grotesque 
of  costumes,  and  with  a  helpless  leg  into  the  bargain! 
Why  had  I  forgotten  my  dressing-gown?  However,  I 
reached  the  armchair,  into  which  I  sank.  I  seized  my 
dressy-coat  which  was  beside  me,  threw  it  over  my 
shoulders,  twisted  my  white  cravat  round  my  neck, 
and,  like  a  soldier  bivouacking,  I  sought  a  comfortable 
position. 

It  would  have  been  all  very  well  without  the  icy 
cold  that  assailed  my  legs,  and  I  saw  nothing  in  reach 
to  cover  me.  I  said  to  myself,  "Captain,  the  position 
is  not  tenable,"  when  at  length  I  perceived  on  the 
couch—  One  sometimes  is  childishly  ashamed,  but  I 
really  dared  not,  and  I  waited  for  a  long  minute  strug- 
gling between  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous  and  the  cold 
which  I  felt  was  increasing.  At  last,  when  I  heard  my 
wife's  breathing  become  more  regular  and  thought  that 
she  must  be  asleep,  I  stretched  out  my  arm  and  pulled 
toward  me  her  wedding-gown  which  was  on  the  couch 
— the  silk  rustled  enough  to  wake  the  dead — and  with 
the  energy  which  one  always  finds  on  an  emergency, 
wrapped  it  round  me  savagely  like  a  railway  rug. 
Then  yielding  to  an  involuntary  fit  of  sybaritism,  I  un- 
hooked the  bellows  and  tried  to  get  the  fire  to  burn. 

"After  all,"  I  said  to  myself,  arranging  the  black- 
ened embers  and  working  the  little  instrument  with  a 

[102] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

thousand  precautions,  "after  all,  I  have  behaved  like  a 
gentleman.  If  the  General  saw  me  at  this  moment  he 
would  laugh  in  my  face;  but  no  matter,  I  have  acted 
rightly." 

Had  I  not  sworn  to  be  sincere,  I  do  not  know  whether 
I  should  acknowledge  to  you  that  I  suddenly  felt  hor- 
rible tinglings  in  the  nasal  regions.  I  wished  to  re- 
strain myself,  but  the  laws  of  nature  are  those  which 
one  can  not  escape.  My  respiration  suddenly  ceased, 
I  felt  a  superhuman  power  contract  my  facial  muscles, 
my  nostrils  dilated,  my  eyes  closed,  and  all  at  once  I 
sneezed  with  such  violence  that  the  bottle  of  Eau  des 
Carmes  shook  again.  God  forgive  me!  A  little  cry 
came  from  the  bed,  and  immediately  afterward  the 
most  silvery  frank  and  ringing  outbreak  of  laughter 
followed.  Then  she  added  in  her  simple,  sweet,  mu- 
sical tones: 

"Have  you  hurt  yourself — Georges?"  She  had  said 
Georges  after  a  brief  silence,  and  in  so  low  a  voice  that 
I  scarcely  heard  it. 

"I  am  very  ridiculous,  am  I  not,  dear?  and  you  are 
quite  right  to  laugh  at  me.  What  would  you  have  ?  I 
am  camping  out  and  I  am  undergoing  the  conse- 
quences." 

"You  are  not  ridiculous,  but  you  are  catching  cold," 
and  she  began  to  laugh  again. 

"Naughty  girl!" 

"Cruel  one,  you  ought  to  say,  and  you  would  not  be 
wrong  if  I  were  to  let  you  fall  ill."  She  said  this  with 
charming  grace.  There  was  a  mingling  of  timidity 
and  tenderness,  modesty  and  raillery,  which  I  find  it 

[I03] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

impossible  to  express,  but  which  stupefied  me.  She 
smiled  at  me,  then  I  saw  her  move  nearer  to  the  wall 
in  order  to  leave  room  for  me,  and,  as  I  hesitated  to 
cross  the  room: 

"Come,  forgive  me,"  she  said. 

I  approached  the  bed ;  my  teeth  were  chattering. 

"How  kind  you  are  to  me,  dear,"  she  said  to  me 
after  a  moment  or  so;  "will  you  wish  me  good-night  ?" 
and  she  held  out  her  cheek  to  me.  I  approached 
nearer,  but  as  the  candle  had  just  gone  out  I  made  a 
mistake  as  to  the  spot,  and  my  lips  brushed  hers.  She 
quivered,  then,  after  a  brief  silence,  she 'murmured  in 
a  low  tone,  "You  must  forgive  me;  you  frightened  me 
so  just  now." 

"I  wanted  to  kiss  you,  dear." 

"Well,  kiss  me,  my  husband." 

Within  the  trembling  young  girl  the  coquetry  of  the 
woman  was  breaking  forth  in  spite  of  herself. 

I  could  not  help  it;  she  exhaled  a  delightful  per- 
fume which  mounted  to  my  brain,  and  the  contact  of 
this  dear  creature  whom  I  touched,  despite  myself, 
swept  away  all  my  resolutions. 

My  lips — I  do  not  know  how  it  was — met  hers,  and 
we  remained  thus  for  a  long  moment;  I  felt  against 
my  breast  the  echo  of  the  beating  heart,  and  her  rapid 
breathing  came  full  into  my  face. 

"You  do  love  me  a  little,  dear?"  I  whispered  in  her 
ear. 

I  distinguished  amid  a  confused  sigh  a  little  "Yes!" 
that  resembled  a  mere  breath. 

"I  don't  frighten  you  any  longer?" 

[104] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"No,"  she  murmured,  very  softly. 

"You  will  be  my  little  wife,  then,  Louise;  you  will 
let  me  teach  you  to  love  me  as  I  love  you?" 

"I  do  love  you,"  said  she,  but  so  softly  and  so  gen- 
tly that  she  seemed  to  be  dreaming. 

How  many  times  have  we  not  laughed  over  these 
recollections,  already  so  remote. 


[105] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  BLUE  NOTE-BOOK 

| 

fOWARD  midnight  mamma  made  a 
sign  to  me  with  her  eyes,  and  under 
cover  of  a  lively  waltz  we  slipped  out 
of  the  drawing-room.  In  the  hall 
the  servants,  who  were  passing  to  and 
fro,  drew  aside  to  let  us  go  by  them, 
but  I  felt  that  their  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  me  with  the  curiosity  which  had 
pursued  me  since  the  morning.  The  large  door  giving 
on  to  the  park  was  open,  although  the  night  was  cool, 
and  in  the  shadow  I  could  make  out  groups  of  country 
folk  gathered  there  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  festivities 
through  the  windows.  These  good  people  were  laugh- 
ing and  whispering;  they  were  silent  for  a  moment  as 
we  advanced  to  ascend  the  staircase,  but  I  once  more 
felt  that  I  was  the  mark  of  these  inquisitive  looks  and 
the  object  of  all  these  smiles.  The  face  of  mamma, 
who  accompanied  me,  was  much  flushed,  and  large 
tears  were  flowing  from  her  eyes. 

How  was  it  that  an  event  so  gay  for  some  was  so  sad 
for  others? 

When  I  think  over  it  now  I  can  hardly  keep  my 
countenance.  What  silly  terrors  at  that  frightful  yet 
charming  moment!  Yet,  after  all,  one  exaggerates 
things  a  great  deal. 

[106] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

On  reaching  the  first  floor  mamma  stopped,  chok- 
ing, took  my  head  in  her  hands,  and  kissed  me  on  the 
forehead,  and  exclaimed,  "Valentine!"  I  was  not 
greatly  moved  by  this  outburst,  knowing  that  mamma, 
since  she  has  grown  a  little  too  stout,  has  some  diffi- 
culty in  getting  upstairs.  I  judged,  therefore,  that  the 
wish  to  take  breath  for  a  moment  without  appearing 
to  do  so  had  something  to  do  with  this  sudden  halt. 

We  entered  the  nuptial  chamber;  it  was  as  coquet- 
tish as  possible,  refreshing  to  the  eye,  snug,  elegant, 
and  adorned  with  fine  Louis  XVI  furniture,  uphol- 
stered in  Beauvais  tapestry.  The  bed,  above  all,  was 
a  marvel  of  elegance,  but  to  tell  the  truth  I  had  no  idea 
of  it  till  a  week  later.  At  the  outside  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  entering  an  austere-looking  locality;  the 
very  air  we  breathed  appeared  to  me  to  have  something 
solemn  and  awe-striking  about  it. 

"Here  is  your  room,  child,"  said  mamma;  "but 
first  of  all  come  and  sit  here  beside  me,  my  dear  girl." 

At  these  words  we  both  burst  into  tears,  and  mamma 
then  expressed  herself  as  follows: 

"The  kiss  you  are  giving  me,  Valentine,  is  the  last 
kiss  that  I  shall  have  from  you  as  a  girl.  Your  hus- 
band— for  Georges  is  that  now " 

At  these  words  I  shuddered  slightly,  and  by  a  singu- 
lar freak  of  my  brain  pictured  to  myself  Monsieur 
Georges — Georges — my  husband — in  a  cotton  night- 
cap and  a  dressing-gown.  The  vision  flashed  across 
my  mind  in  the  midst  of  the  storm.  I  saw  him  just  as 
plainly  as  if  he  had  been  there.  It  was  dreadful.  The 
nightcap  came  over  his  forehead,  down  to  his  eye- 

[107] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

brows,  and  he  said  to  me,  pressing  my  hand;  "At  last, 
Valentine,  you  are  mine;  do  you  love  me?  oh!  tell  me, 
do  you  love  me?"  And  as  his  head  moved  as  he  ut- 
tered these  words,  the  horrible  tuft  at  the  end  of  his 
nightcap  waggled  as  an  accompaniment. 

"No,"  I  said  to  myself,  "it  is  impossible  for  my  hus- 
band to  appear  in  such  a  fashion;  let  me  banish  this 
image — and  yet  my  father  wears  the  hideous  things, 
and  my  brother,  who  is  quite  young,  has  them  already. 
Men  wear  them  at  all  ages,  unless  though — '  It  is 
frightful  to  relate,  but  Georges  now  appeared  to  me 
with  a  red -and -green  bandanna  handkerchief  tied 
round  his  head.  I  would  have  given  ten  years  of  my 
life  to  be  two  hours  older,  and  hurriedly  passed  my  hand 
across  my  eyes  to  drive  away  these  diabolical  visions. 

However,  mamma,  who  had  been  still  speaking  all 
the  time,  attributing  this  movement  to  the  emotion 
caused  by  her  words,  said,  with  great  sweetness: 

"Do  not  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Valentine;  perhaps  I 
am  painting  the  picture  in  too  gloomy  colors;  but  my 
experience  and  my  love  render  this  duty  incumbent 
upon  me." 

I  have  never  heard  mamma  express  herself  so  fluent- 
ly. I  was  all  the  more  surprised  as,  not  having  heard 
a  word  of  what  she  had  already  said,  this  sentence 
seemed  suddenly  sprung  upon  me.  Not  knowing 
what  to  answer,  I  threw  myself  into  the  arms  of  mam- 
ma, who,  after  a  minute  or  so,  put  me  away  gently, 
saying,  "You  are  suffocating  me,  dear." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  little  cambric  handker- 
chief, which  was  damp,  and  said,  smilingly: 

[108] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"Now  that  I  have  told  you  what  my  conscience  im- 
posed on  me,  I  am  strong.  See,  dear,  I  think  that  I 
can  smile.  Your  husband,  my  dear  child,  is  a  man 
full  of  delicacy.  Have  confidence;  accept  all  without 
misgiving." 

Mamma  kissed  me  on  the  forehead,  which  finished 
off  her  sentence,  and  added: 

"Now,  dear  one,  I  have  fulfilled  a  duty  I  regarded 
as  sacred.  Come  here  and  let  me  take  your  wreath 
off." 

"By  this  time,"  I  thought,  "they  have  noticed  that  I 
have  left  the  drawing-room.  They  are  saying,  '  Where 
is  the  bride?'  and  smiling,  'Monsieur  Georges  is  get- 
ting uneasy.  What  is  he  doing  ?  what  is  he  thinking  ? 
where  is  he  ?  " 

"Have  you  tried  on  your  nightcap,  dear?"  said 
mamma,  who  had  recovered  herself;  "it  looks  rather 
small  to  me,  but  is  nicely  embroidered.  Oh,  it  is 
lovely!" 

And  she  examined  it  from  every  point  of  view. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  "It 
is  I,"  said  several  voices,  among  which  I  distinguished 
the  flute-like  tones  of  my  aunt  Laura,  and  those  of  my 
godmother.  Madame  de  P.,  who  never  misses  a  chance 
of  pressing  her  two  thick  lips  to  some  one's  cheeks,  ac- 
companied them.  Their  eyes  glittered,  and  all  three 
had  a  sly  and  triumphant  look,  ferreting  and  inquisi- 
tive, which  greatly  intimidated  me.  Would  they  also 
set  about  fulfilling  a  sacred  duty? 

"Oh,  you  are  really  too  pretty,  my  angel!"  said  Ma- 
dame de  P.,  kissing  me  on  the  forehead,  after  the  moist 

[109] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

fashion  peculiar  to  her,  and  then  sitting  down  in  the 
large  Louis  XVI  armchair. 

My  maid  had  not  been  allowed  to  undress  me,  so 
that  all  of  them,  taking  off  their  gloves,  set  to  work  to 
render  me  this  service.  They  tangled  the  laces,  caught 
their  own  lace  in  the  hooks,  and  laughed  heartily  all 
the  while. 

"It  is  the  least  that  the  oldest  friend  of  the  family," 
— she  loved  to  speak  of  herself  as  such — "should  make 
herself  useful  at  such  a  moment,"  muttered  Madame 
de  P.,  holding  her  eyeglass  in  one  hand  and  working 
with  the  other. 

I  passed  into  a  little  boudoir  to  complete  my  toilette 
for  the  night,  and  found  on  the  marble  of  the  dressing- 
table  five  or  six  bottles  of  scent,  tied  up  with  red,  white, 
and  blue  ribbons — an  act  of  attention  on  the  part  of 
my  Aunt  Laura.  I  felt  the  blood  flying  to  my  head; 
there  was  an  unbearable  singing  in  my  ears.  Now 
that  I  can  coolly  weigh  the  impressions  I  underwent,  I 
can  tell  that  what  I  felt  above  all  was  anger.  I  would 
have  liked  to  be  in  the  farthest  depths  of  the  wildest 
forest  in  America,  so  unseemly  did  I  find  this  curi- 
ous kindness  which  haunted  me  with  its  attentions.  I 
should  have  liked  to  converse  a  little  with  myself,  to 
fathom  my  own  emotion  somewhat,  and,  in  short,  to 
utter  a  brief  prayer  before  throwing  myself  into  the 
torrent. 

However,  through  the  open  door,  I  could  hear  the 
four  ladies  whispering  together  and  stifling  their  out- 
bursts of  laughter;  I  had  never  seen  them  so  gay.  I 
made  up  my  mind.  I  crossed  the  room,  and,  shaking 

[no] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

off  the  pretty  little  white  slippers  which  my  mother  had 
embroidered  for  me,  jumped  into  bed.  I  was  not  long 
in  finding  out  that  it  was  no  longer  my  own  narrow  lit- 
tle bed.  It  was  immense,  and  I  hesitated  a  moment, 
not  knowing  which  way  to  turn.  I  felt  nevertheless  a 
feeling  of  physical  comfort.  The  bed  was  warm,  and  I 
do  not  know  what  scent  rose  from  its  silken  coverlet. 
I  felt  myself  sink  into  the  mass  of  feathers,  the  pillows, 
twice  over  too  large  and  trimmed  with  embroidery, 
gave  way  as  it  were  beneath  me,  burying  me  in  a  soft 
and  perfumed  abyss. 

At  length  the  ladies  rose,  and  after  giving  a  glance 
round  the  room,  doubtless  to  make  sure  that  nothing 
was  lacking,  approached  the  bed. 

"Good-night,  my  dear  girl,"  said  my  mother,  bend- 
ing over  me. 

She  kissed  me,  carried  her  handkerchief,  now  re- 
duced to  a  wet  dab,  to  her  eyes,  and  went  out  with  a 
certain  precipitation. 

"Remember  that  the  old  friend  of  the  family  kissed 
you  on  this  night,  my  love,"  said  Madame  de  P.,  as 
she  moistened  my  forehead. 

"Come,  my  little  lamb,  good-night  and  sleep  well," 
said  my  aunt,  with  her  smile  that  seemed  to  issue  from 
her  nose.  She  added  in  a  whisper:  "You  love  him, 
don't  you?  The  sly-boots!  she  won't  answer!  Well, 
since  you  love  him  so  much,  don't  tell  him  so,  my 
dear.  But  I  must  leave  you;  you  are  sleepy.  Good- 
night." 

And  she  went  away,  smiling. 

At  length  I  was  alone.  I  listened;  the  doors  were 
[in] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

being  closed,  I  heard  a  carriage  roll  along  the  road; 
the  flame  of  the  two  candles  placed  upon  the  mantel- 
shelf quivered  silently  and  were  reflected  in  the  look- 
ing-glass. 

I  thought  about  the  ceremony  of  that  morning,  the 
dinner,  the  ball.  I  said  to  myself,  clenching  my  fists  to 
concentrate  my  thoughts:  "How  was  Marie  dressed? 
She  was  dressed  in — dressed  in — dressed  in — "  I  re- 
peated the  words  aloud  to  impart  more  authority  to 
them  and  oblige  my  mind  to  reply;  but  do  what  I 
would,  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  drive  away  the 
thought  that  invaded  my  whole  being. 

"He  is  coming.  What  is  he  doing?  Where  is  he? 
Perhaps  he  is  on  the  stairs  now.  How  shall  I  receive 
him  when  he  comes?" 

I  loved  him;  oh!  with  my  whole  soul,  I  can  ac- 
knowledge it  now;  but  I  loved  him  quite  at  the  bot- 
tom of  my  heart.  In  order  to  think  of  him  I  went 
down  into  the  very  lowest  chamber  of  my  heart,  bolted 
the  door,  and  crouched  down  in  the  darkest  corner. 

At  last,  at  a  certain  moment,  the  floor  creaked,  a  door 
was  opened  in  the  passage  with  a  thousand  precau- 
tions, and  I  heard  the  tread  of  a  boot — a  boot! 

The  boot  ceased  to  creak,  and  I  heard  quite  close  to 
me,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  which  was  nothing 
but  a  thin  partition,  an  armchair  being  rolled  across  the 
carpet,  and  then  a  little  cough,  which  seemed  to  me  to 
vibrate  with  emotion.  It  was  he!  But  for  the  parti- 
tion I  could  have  touched  him  with  my  finger.  A  few 
moments  later  I  could  distinguish  the  almost  impercep- 
tible sound  of  footsteps  on  the  carpet;  this  faint  sound 

[112] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  B&BE 

rang  violently  in  my  head.  All  at  once  my  breathing 
and  my  heart  both  stopped  together;  there  was  a  tap 
at  the  door.  The  tapping  was  discreet,  full  of  entreaty 
and  delicacy.  I  wanted  to  reply,  "Come  in,"  but  I 
had  no  longer  any  voice;  and,  besides,  was  it  becoming 
to  answer  like  that,  so  curtly  and  plainly?  I  thought 
"Come  in "  would  sound  horribly  unseemly,  and  I  said 
nothing.  There  was  another  tap.  I  should  really 
have  preferred  the  door  to  have  been  broken  open  with 
a  hatchet  or  for  him  to  have  come  down  the  chimney. 
In  my  agony  I  coughed  faintly  among  my  sheets. 
That  was  enough;  the  door  opened,  and  I  divined  from 
the  alteration  in  the  light  shed  by  the  candles  that 
some  one  at  whom  I  did  not  dare  look  was  interposing 
between  them  and  myself. 

This  some  one,  who  seemed  to  glide  across  the  carpet, 
drew  near  the  bed,  and  I  could  distinguish  out  of  the 
corner  of  my  eye  his  shadow  on  the  wall.  I  could 
scarcely  restrain  my  joy;  my  Captain  wore  neither 
cotton  nightcap  nor  bandanna  handkerchief.  That 
was  indeed  something.  However,  in  this  shadow 
which  represented  him  in  profile,  his  nose  had  so  much 
importance  that  amid  all  my  uneasiness  a  smile  flitted 
across  my  lips.  Is  it  not  strange  how  all  these  little 
details  recur  to  your  mind  ?  I  did  not  dare  turn  round, 
but  I  devoured  with  my  eyes  this  shadow  representing 
my  husband;  I  tried  to  trace  in  it  the  slightest  of  his 
gestures;  I  even  sought  the  varying  expressions  of  his 
physiognomy,  but,  alas!  in  vain. 

I  do  not  know  how  to  express  in  words  all  that  I 
felt  at  that  moment;  my  pen  seems  too  clumsy  to 
8  [113] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

write  my  sensations,  and,  besides,  did  I  really  see  deep 
into  my  heart  ? 

Do  men  comprehend  all  this?  Do  they  understand 
that  the  heart  requires  gradual  changes,  and  that  if  a 
half-light  awakens,  a  noon-day  blaze  dazzles  and  burns  ? 
It  is  not  that  the  poor  child,  who  is  trembling  in  a  cor- 
ner, refuses  to  learn;  far  from  that,  she  has  aptitude, 
good- will,  and  a  quick  and  ready  intelligence;  she 
knows  she  has  reached  the  age  at  which  it  is  necessary 
to  know  how  to  read;  she  rejects  neither  the  science 
nor  even  the  teacher.  It  is  the  method  of  instruction 
that  makes  her  uneasy.  She  is  afraid  lest  this  young 
professor,  whose  knowledge  is  so  extensive,  should 
turn  over  the  pages  of  the  book  too  quickly  and  neglect 
the  ABC. 

A  few  hours  back  he  was  the  submissive,  humble 
lover,  ready  to  kneel  down  before  her,  hiding  his  know- 
ledge as  one  hides  a  sin,  speaking  his  own  language  with 
a  thousand  circumspections.  At  any  moment  it  might 
have  been  thought  that  he  was  going  to  blush.  She 
was  a  queen,  he  a  child ;  and  now  all  at  once  the  roles 
are  changed;  it  is  the  submissive  subject  who  arrives 
in  the  college  cap  of  a  professor,  hiding  under  his  arm 
an  unknown  and  mysterious  book.  Is  the  man  in  the 
college  cap  about  to  command,  to  smile,  to  obtrude  him- 
self and  his  books,  to  speak  Latin,  to  deliver  a  lecture  ? 

She  does  not  know  that  this  learned  individual  is 
trembling,  too ;  that  he  is  greatly  embarrassed  over  his 
opening  lesson,  that  emotion  has  caused  him  to  forget 
his  Latin,  that  his  throat  is  parched  and  his  legs  are 
trembling  beneath  him.  She  does  not  know  this,  and 

[114] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

I  tell  you  between  ourselves,  it  is  not  her  self-esteem 
that  suffers  least  at  this  conjecture.  She  suffers  at 
finding  herself,  after  so  many  signatures,  contracts,  and 
ceremonies — still  a  charming  child,  and  nothing  more. 

I  believe  that  the  first  step  in  conjugal  life  will, 
according  to  the  circumstances  accompanying  it,  give 
birth  to  captivating  sympathies  or  invincible  repulsion. 
But  to  give  birth  to  these  sympathies,  to  strike  the 
spark  that  is  to  set  light  to  this  explosion  of  infinite 
gratitude  and  joyful  love — what  art,  what  tact,  what 
delicacy,  and  at  the  same  time  what  presence  of  mind 
are  needed. 

How  was  it  that  at  the  first  word  Georges  uttered  my 
terrors  vanished  ?  His  voice  was  so  firm  and  so  sweet, 
he  asked  me  so  gayly  for  leave  to  draw  near  the  fire 
and  warm  his  feet,  and  spoke  to  me  with  such  ease  and 
animation  of  the  incidents  of  the  day.  I  said  to  my- 
self, "It  is  impossible  for  the  least  baseness  to  be  hid- 
den under  all  this."  In  presence  of  so  much  good- 
humor  and  affability  my  scaffolding  fell  to  pieces.  I 
ventured  a  look  from  beneath  the  sheets:  I  saw  him 
comfortably  installed  in  the  big  armchair,  and  I  bit 
my  lips.  I  am  still  at  a  loss  to  understand  this  little 
fit  of  ill-temper.  When  one  is  reckoning  on  a  fright, 
one  is  really  disappointed  at  its  delaying  itself.  Never 
had  Georges  been  more  witty,  more  affectionate,  more 
well-bred;  he  was  still  the  man  of  the  day  before.  He 
must  really  have  been  very  excited. 

"You  are  tired  out,  I  am  certain,  darling,"  he  said. 

The  word  "darling"  made  me  start,  but  did  not 
frighten  me ;  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  me  so, 

[us] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

but  I  really  could  not  refuse  him  the  privilege  of  speak- 
ing thus.  However  it  may  be,  I  maintained  my  re- 
serve, and  hi  the  same  tone  as  one  replies,  "No  thanks, 
I  don't  take  tea,"  I  answered: 

"Oh,  yes!  I  am  worn  out" 

"I  thought  so,"  he  added,  approaching  the  bed; 
"you  can  not  keep  your  eyes  open;  you  can  not  even 
look  at  me,  my  dear  little  wife." 

"I  will  leave  you,"  continued  he.  "I  will  leave  you; 
you  need  repose."  And  he  drew  still  more  closely  to 
me,  which  was  not  natural.  Then,  stretching  out  his 
hand,  which  I  knew  was  white  and  well  cared  for: 
"Won't  you  give  me  a  little  shake  of  the  hand,  dear? 
I  am  half  asleep,  too,  my  pretty  little  wife."  His  face 
wore  an  expression  which  was  alarming,  though  not 
without  its  charm ;  as  he  said  this,  I  saw  clearly  that 
he  had  lied  to  me  like  a  demon,  and  that  he  was  no 
more  sleepy  than  I  was. 

However  that  may  be,  I  was  guilty  of  the  fault,  the 
carelessness  that  causes  disaster,  of  letting  him  take 
my  hand,  which  was  straying  by  chance  under  the  lace 
of  the  pillows. 

I  was  that  evening  in  a  special  condition  of  nervous 
sensibility,  for  at  this  contact  a  strange  sensation  ran 
through  me  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  not  that  the 
Captain's  hand  had  the  softness  of  satin — I  believe  that 
physical  sensations,  in  us  women,  have  causes  directly 
contrary  to  those  which  move  men;  for  that  which 
caused  me  such  lively  emotion  was  precisely  its  firm- 
ness. There  was  something  strong,  manly,  and  power- 
ful about  it.  He  squeezed  my  hand  rather  strongly. 

[116] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

My  rings,  which  I  have  a  fancy  for  wearing  all  at  once, 
hurt  me,  and — I  really  should  not  have  believed  it — I 
liked  it  very  much,  perhaps  too  much.  For  the  first 
time  I  found  an  inexplicable,  an  almost  intoxicating, 
charm  in  this  intimate  contact  with  a  being  who  could 
have  crushed  me  between  his  fingers,  and  that  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  too,  in  silence,  without  any  possi- 
bility of  help.  It  was  horribly  delicious. 

I  did  not  withdraw  my  hand,  which  he  kissed,  but 
lingeringly.  The  clock  struck  two,  and  the  last  sound 
had  long  since  died  away  when  his  lips  were  still  there, 
quivering  with  rapid  little  movements,  which  were  so 
many  imperceptible  kisses,  moist,  warm,  burning.  I 
felt  gleams  of  fire  flashing  .around  me.  I  wished  to 
draw  away  my  hand,  but  could  not;  I  remember  per- 
fectly well  that  I  could  not.  His  moustache  pricked 
me,  and  whiffs  of  the  scent  with  which  he  perfumed  it 
reached  me  and  completed  my  trouble.  I  felt  my  nos- 
trils dilating  despite  myself,  and,  striving  but  in  vain 
to  take  refuge  in  my  inmost  being,  I  exclaimed  in- 
wardly: "Protect  me,  Lord,  but  this  time  with  all  your 
might.  A  drop  of  water,  Lord;  a  drop  of  water!"  I 
waited — no  appreciable  succor  reached  from  above. 
It  was  not  till  a  week  afterward  that  I  understood  the 
intentions  of  Providence. 

"You  told  me  you  were  sleepy,"  I  murmured,  in  a 
trembling  voice.  I  was  like  a  shipwrecked  person 
clutching  at  a  floating  match-box;  I  knew  quite  well 
that  the  Captain  would  not  go  away. 

"Yes,  I  was  sleepy,  pet,"  said  Georges,  approaching 
his  face  to  mine ;  "but  now  I  am  athirst."  He  put  his 

[117] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

lips  to  my  ear  and  whispered  softly,  "A thirst  for  a  kiss 
from  you,  love." 

This  "love"  was  the  beginning  of  another  life.  The 
spouse  now  appeared,  the  past  was  fleeing  away,  I 
was  entering  on  the  future.  At  length  I  had  crossed 
the  frontier;  I  was  in  a  foreign  land.  Oh!  I  ac- 
knowledge— for  what  is  the  use  of  feigning? — that  I 
craved  for  this  love,  and  I  felt  that  it  engrossed  me  and 
spread  itself  through  me.  I  felt  that  I  was  getting  out 
of  my  depth,  I  let  go  the  last  branch  that  held  me  to 
the  shore,  and  to  myself  I  repeated:  "Yes,  I  love  you; 
yes,  I  am  willing  to  follow  you;  yes,  I  am  yours,  love, 
love,  love!" 

"Won't  you  kiss  your  husband;  come,  won't  you?" 

And  his  mouth  was  so  near  my  own  that  it  seemed 
to  meet  my  lips. 

"Yes,"  said  I. 

August  7th,  185 —  How  many  times  have  I  not 
read  through  you  during  the  last  two  years,  my  little 
blue  note-book!  How  many  things  I  might  add  as 
marginal  notes  if  you  were  not  doomed  to  the  flames, 
to  light  my  first  fire  this  autumn!  How  could  I  have 
written  all  this,  and  how  is  it  that  having  done  so  I 
have  not  dared  to  complete  my  confidences!  No  one 
has  seen  you,  at  any  rate;  no  one  has  turned  your 
pages.  Go  back  into  your  drawer,  dear,  with,  pending 
the  first  autumn  fire,  a  kiss  from  your  Valentine. 

NOTE. — Owing  to  what  circumstances  this  blue  note-book,  doomed 
to  the  flames,  was  discovered  by  me  in  an  old  Louis  XVI  chiffonnier  I 
had  just  bought  does  not  greatly  matter  to  you,  dear  reader,  and 
would  be  out  of  my  power  to  explain  even  if  it  did. 

[118] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  BLUE  NOTE-BOOK  AGAIN 

NLY  to  think  that  I  was  going  to 
throw  you  into  the  fire,  poor  dear! 
Was  I  not  foolish?  In  whom  else 
could  I  confide  ?  If  I  had  not  you, 
to  whom  could  I  tell  all  those  little 
things  at  which  every  one  laughs,  but 
which  make  you  cry! 

This  evening,  for  instance,  I  dined 
alone,  for  Georges  was  invited  out ;  well,  to  whom  else 
can  I  acknowledge  that  when  I  found  myself  alone, 
face  to  face  with  a  leg  of  mutton,  cooked  to  his  liking, 
and  with  the  large  carving-knife  which  is  usually  be- 
side his  plate,  before  me,  I  began  to  cry  like  a  child? 
To  whom  else  can  I  admit  that  I  drank  out  of  the  Bo- 
hemian wine-glass  he  prefers,  to  console  me  a  little  ? 

But  if  I  were  to  mention  this  they  would  laugh  in 
my  face.  Father  Cyprien  himself,  who  nevertheless 
has  a  heart  running  over  with  kindness,  would  say  to 
me: 

"Let  us  pass  that  by,  my  dear  child;  let  us  pass  that 
by." 

I  know  him  so  well,  Father  Cyprien;  while  you,  you 
always  listen  to  me,  my  poor  little  note-book;  if  a  tear 

[119] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

escapes  me,  you  kindly  absorb  it  and  retain  its  trace 
like  a  good-hearted  friend.  Hence  I  love  you. 

And,  since  we  are  tete-a-tete,  let  us  have  a  chat. 
You  won't  be  angry  with  me  for  writing  with  a  pencil, 
dear.  You  see  I  am  very  comfortably  settled  in  my 
big  by-by  and  I  do  not  want  to  have  any  ink-stains. 
The  fire  sparkles  on  the  hearth,  the  street  is  silent;  let 
us  forget  that  George  will  not  return  till  midnight,  and 
turn  back  to  the  past. 

I  can  not  recall  the  first  month  of  that  dear  past 
without  laughing  and  weeping  at  one  and  the  same 
time. 

How  foolish  we  were !  How  sweet  it  was!  There  is 
a  method  of  teaching  swimming  which  is  not  the  least 
successful,  I  am  told.  It  consists  in  throwing  the  fut- 
ure swimmer  into  the  water  and  praying  God  to  help 
him.  I  am  assured  that  after  the  first  lesson  he  keeps 
himself  afloat. 

Well,  I  think  that  we  women  are  taught  to  be  wives 
in  very  much  the  same  fashion. 

Happy  or  otherwise — the  point  is  open  to  discussion 
— marriage  is  a  hurricane — something  unheard-of  and 
alarming. 

In  a  single  night,  and  without  any  transition,  every- 
thing is  transformed  and  changes  color;  the  erst  white- 
cravatted,  freshly  curled,  carefully  dressed  gentleman 
makes  his  appearance  in  a  dressing-gown.  That  which 
was  prohibited  becomes  permissible,  the  code  is  altered, 
and  words  acquire  a  meaning  they  never  had  before,  et 
cetera,  et  cetera. 

It  is  not  that  all  this  is  so  alarming,  if  taken  the  right 
[120] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

way — a  woman  with  some  courage  in  her  heart  and 
some  flexibility  in  her  mind  supports  the  shock  and 
does  not  die  under  it ;  but  the  firmest  of  us  are  amazed 
at  it,  and  stand  open-mouthed  amid  all  these  strange 
novelties,  like  a  penniless  gourmand  in  the  shop  of 
Potel  and  Chabot. 

They  dare  not  touch  these  delicacies  surrounding 
them,  though  invited  to  taste.  It  is  not  that  the  wish 
or  the  appetite  is  lacking  to  them,  but  all  these  fine 
fruits  have  been  offered  them  so  lately  that  they  have 
still  the  somewhat  acid  charm  of  green  apples  or  for- 
bidden fruit.  They  approach,  but  they  hesitate  to 
bite. 

After  all,  why  complain?  What  would  one  have  to 
remember  if  one  had  entered  married  life  like  an  inn, 
if  one  had  not  trembled  a  little  when  knocking  at  the 
door?  And  it  is  so  pleasant  to  recall  things,  that  one 
would  sometimes  like  to  deck  the  future  in  the  gar- 
ments of  the  past. 

It  was,  I  recollect,  two  days  after  the  all-important 
one.  I  had  gone  into  his  room,  I  no  longer  remember 
why — for  the  pleasure  of  going  in,  I  suppose,  and  there- 
by acting  as  a  wife.  A  strong  desire  is  that  which 
springs  up  in  your  brain  after  leaving  church  to  look 
like  an  old  married  woman.  You  put  on  caps  with 
ribbons,  you  never  lay  aside  your  cashmere  shawl,  you 
talk  of  "my  home" — two  sweet  words — and  then  you 
bite  your  lips  to  keep  from  breaking  out  into  a  laugh; 
and  "my  husband,"  and  "my  maid,"  and  the  first 
dinner  you  order,  when  you  forget  the  soup.  All  this 
is  charming,  and,  however  ill  at  ease  you  may  feel  at 

[121] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

first  in  all  these  new  clothes,  you  are  quite  eager  to  put 
them  on. 

So  I  had  gone  into  the  dressing-room  of  my  husband, 
who,  standing  before  the  glass,  very  lightly  clad,  was 
prosaically  shaving. 

"Excuse  me,  dear,"  said  he,  laughing,  and  he  held 
up  his  shaving-brush,  covered  with  white  lather.  "You 
will  pardon  my  going  on  with  this.  Do  you  want  any- 
thing?" 

"I  came,  on  the  contrary,"  I  answered,  "to  see 
whether  you  had  need  of  anything;"  and,  greatly  em- 
barrassed myself,  for  I  was  afraid  of  being  indiscreet, 
and  I  was  not  sure  whether  one  ought  to  go  into  one's 
husband's  room  like  this,  I  added,  innocently,  "Your 
shirts  have  buttons,  have  they  not?" 

"Oh,  what  a  good  little  housewife  I  have  married! 
Do  not  bother  yourself  about  such  trifles,  my  pet.  I 
will  ask  your  maid  to  look  after  my  buttons,"  said  he. 

I  felt  confused ;  I  was  afraid  of  appearing  too  much 
of  a  schoolgirl  in  his  eyes.  He  went  on  working  his 
soap  into  a  lather  with  his  shaving-brush.  I  wanted  to 
go  away,  but  I  was  interested  in  such  a  novel  fashion 
by  the  sight  of  my  husband,  that  I  had  not  courage  to 
do  so.  His  neck  was  bare — a  thick,  strong  neck,  but 
very  white  and  changing  its  shape  at  every  movement 
—the  muscles,  you  know.  It  would  have  been  horri- 
ble in  a  woman,  that  neck,  and  yet  it  did  not  seem 
ugly  to  me.  Nor  was  it  admiration  that  thus  inspired 
me;  it  was  rather  like  gluttony.  I  wanted  to  touch  it. 
His  hair,  cut  very  short — according  to  regulation — 
grew  very  low,  and  between  its  beginning  and  the  ear 

[122] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  BEBE 

there  was  quite  a  smooth  white  place.  The  idea  at 
once  occurred  to  me  that  if  ever  I  became  brave  enough, 
it  was  there  that  I  should  kiss  him  oftenest;  it  was 
strange,  that  presentiment,  for  it  is  in  fact  on  that  little 
spot  that  I 

He  stopped  short.  I  fancied  I  understood  that  he 
was  afraid  of  appearing  comical  in  my  eyes,  with  his 
face  smothered  in  lather;  but  he  was  wrong.  I  felt 
myself  all  in  a  quiver  at  being  beside  a  man — the  word 
man  is  rather  distasteful  to  me,  but  I  can  not  find  an- 
other, for  husband  would  not  express  my  thoughts — at 
being  beside  a  man  in  the  making  of  his  toilette.  I 
should  have  liked  him  to  go  on  without  troubling  him- 
self; I  should  have  liked  to  see  how  he  managed  to 
shave  himself  without  encroaching  on  his  moustache, 
how  he  made  his  parting  and  brushed  his  hair  with  the 
two  round  brushes  I  saw  on  the  table,  what  use  he 
made  of  all  the  little  instruments  set  out  in  order  on 
the  marble — tweezers,  scissors,  tiny  combs,  little  pots 
and  bottles  with  silver  tops,  and  a  whole  arsenal  of 
bright  things,  that  aroused  quite  a  desire  to  beautify 
one's  self. 

I  should  have  liked  him  while  talking  to  attend  to 
the  nails  of  his  hands,  which  I  was  already  very  fond 
of;  or,  better  still,  to  have  handed  them  over  to  me. 
How  I  should  have  rummaged  in  the  little  corners,  cut, 
filed,  arranged  all  that. 

"Well,  dear,  what  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that 
for?"  said  he,  smiling. 

I  lowered  my  eyes  at  once,  and  felt  that  I  was 
blushing.  I  was  uneasy,  although  charmed,  amid 

[I23] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

these  new  surroundings.  I  did  not  know  what  to 
answer,  and  mechanically  I  dipped  the  tip  of  my 
finger  into  the  little  china  pot  in  which  the  soap  was 
being  lathered. 

"What  is  the  matter,  darling?"  said  he,  approaching 
his  face  to  mine;  "have  I  offended  you?" 

I  don't  know  what  strange  idea  darted  through  my 
mind,  but  I  suddenly  took  my  hand  from  the  pot  and 
stuck  the  big  ball  of  lather  at  the  end  of  my  finger  on 
the  tip  of  his  nose.  He  broke  out  into  a  hearty  laugh, 
and  so  did  I;  though  I  trembled  for  a  moment,  lest  he 
should  be  angry. 

"So  that's  the  way  in  which  you  behave  to  a  captain 
in  the  lancers  ?  You  shall  pay  for  this,  you  wicked 
little  darling;"  and,  taking  the  shaving  brush  in  his 
hand,  he  chased  me  round  the  room.  I  dodged  round 
the  table,  I  took  refuge  behind  the  armchair,  upsetting 
his  boots  with  my  skirt,  getting  the  tongs  at  the  same 
time  entangled  in  it.  Passing  the  sofa,  I  noticed  his 
uniform  laid  out — he  had  to  wait  on  the  General  that 
morning — and,  seizing  his  schapska,  I  made  use  of  it 
as  a  buckler.  But  laughter  paralyzed  me,  and  besides, 
what  could  a  poor  little  woman  do  against  a  soldier, 
even  with  a  buckler? 

He  ended  by  catching  me — the  struggle  was  a  lovely 
on.  It  was  all  very  well  for  me  to  scream,  as  I  threw 
my  head  backward  over  the  arm  by  which  he  clasped 
me;  I  none  the  less  saw  the  frightful  brush,  like  a  big 
snowball,  at  the  end  of  a  little  stick,  come  nearer  and 
yet  nearer. 

But  he  was  merciful;  he  was  satisfied  with  daubing 

[124] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

a  little  white  spot  on  my  chin  and  exclaiming,  "The 
cavalry  have  avenged  themselves." 

Seizing  the  brush  in  turn,  I  said  to  him  roguishly, 
"Captain,  let  me  lather  your  face,"  for  I  did  so  want 
to  do  that. 

In  answer,  he  held  his  face  toward  me,  and,  observ- 
ing that  I  was  obliged  to  stand  on  the  tips  of  my  toes 
and  to  support  myself  a  little  on  his  shoulder,  he  knelt 
down  before  me  and  yielded  his  head  to  me. 

With  the  tip  of  my  finger  I  made  him  bend  his  face 
to  the  right  and  the  left,  backward  and  forward,  and  I 
lathered  and  lathered,  giggling  like  a  schoolgirl.  It 
amused  me  so  to  see  my  Captain  obey  me  like  a  child ; 
I  would  have  given  I  don't  know  what  if  he  had  only 
had  his  sword  and  spurs  on  at  that  moment.  Unfort- 
unately, he  was  in  his  slippers.  I  spread  the  lather 
over  his  nose  and  forehead ;  he  closed  his  eyes  and  put 
his  two  arms  round  me,  saying: 

"  Go  on,  my  dear,  go  on;  but  see  that  you  don't  put 
any  into  my  mouth. 

At  that  moment  I  experienced  a  very  strange  feeling. 
My  laughter  died  away  all  at  once;  I  felt  ashamed  at 
seeing  my  husband  at  my  feet  and  at  thus  amusing 
myself  with  him  as  if  he  were  a  doll. 

I  dropped  the  shaving-brush;  I  felt  my  eyes  grow 
moist;  and,  suddenly,  becoming  more  tender,  I  bent 
toward  him  and  kissed  him  on  the  neck,  which  was  the 
only  spot  left  clear. 

Yet  his  ear  was  so  near  that,  in  passing  it,  my  lips 
moved  almost  in  spite  of  myself,  and  I  whispered : 

"Don't  be  angry,  dear,"  then,  overcome  by  emotion 
[125] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

and  repentance,  I  added:  "I  love  you,  I  do  love 
you." 

"My  own  pet!"  he  said,  rising  suddenly.  His  voice 
shook. 

What  delightful  moments  these  were !  Unfortunately, 
oh!  yes,  indeed,  unfortunately,  he  could  not  press  his 
lathered  face  to  mine ! 

"Wait  a  little,"  he  exclaimed,  darting  toward  the 
wash-basin,  full  of  water,  "wait  an  instant!" 

But  it  seemed  as  if  it  took  him  a  week  to  wash  it  off. 


[126] 


CHAPTER  XV 

MY  WIFE  GOES  TO  A  DANCE 

^'ADAME — Ah!  it  is  so  nice  of  you  to 
come  home  early!  (Looking  at  the 
clock.)  A  quarter  to  six.  But  how 
cold  you  are!  your  hands  are  frozen; 
come  and  sit  by  the  fire.  (She  puts 
a  log  on  the  fire.)  I  have  been  think- 
ing of  you  all  day.  It  is  cruel  to 
have  to  go  out  in  such  weather. 
Have  you  finished  your  doubts  ?  are  you  satisfied  ? 

Monsieur — Quite  well  satisfied,  dear.  (Aside)  But 
I  have  never  known  my  wife  to  be  so  amiable.  (Aloud, 
taking  up  the  bellows)  Quite  well  satisfied,  and  I  am 
very  hungry.  Has  my  darling  been  good  ? 

Madame — You  are  hungry.     Good!     (Calling  out) 
Marie,  call  into  the  kitchen  that  your  master  wants  to 
dine  early.     Let  them  look  after  everything — and  send 
up  a  lemon. 
Monsieur — A  mystery? 

Madame — Yes,  Monsieur,  I  have  a  little  surprise  for 
you,  and  I  fancy  that  it  will  delight  you. 
Monsieur — Well,  what  is  the  surprise  ? 
Madame — Oh!    it  is  a  real  surprise.    How  curious 
you  look!  your  eyes  are  glittering  already.     Suppose  I 
were  not  to  tell  you  anything? 

[127] 


Monsieur — Then  you  would  vex  me  very  much. 

Madame — There,  I  don't  want  to  vex  you.  You  are 
going  to  have  some  little  green  oysters  and  a  partridge. 
Am  I  good? 

Monsieur — Oysters  and  a  partridge!  You  are  an 
angel.  (He  kisses  her.)  An  angel.  (Aside.)  What 
on  earth  is  the  matter  with  her?  (Aloud.)  Have  you 
had  visitors  to-day? 

Madame — I  saw  Ernestine  this  morning,  but  she 
only  stayed  a  fnoment.  She  has  just  discharged  her 
maid.  Would  you  believe  it,  that  girl  was  seen  the 
night  before  last  dressed  up  as  a  man,  and  in  her 
master's  clothes,  too!  That  was  going  too  far. 

Monsieur — That  comes  of  having  confidential  ser- 
vants. And  you  just  got  a  sight  of  Ernestine? 

Madame — And  that  was  quite  enough,  too.  (With 
an  exclamation.)  How  stupid  I  am!  I  forgot.  I  had 
a  visit  from  Madame  de  Lyr  as  well. 

Monsieur — God  bless  her!  But  does  she  still  laugh 
on  one  side  of  her  mouth  to  hide  her  black  tooth? 

Madame — How  cruel  you  are!  Yet,  she  likes  you 
very  well.  Poor  woman!  I  was  really  touched  by  her 
visit.  She  came  to  remind  me  that  we — now  you  will 
be  angry.  (She  kisses  him  and  sits  down  beside  him.) 

Monsieur — Be  angry!  be  angry!  I'm  not  a  Turk. 
Come,  what  is  it  ? 

Madame — Come,  we  shall  go  to  dinner.  You  know 
that  there  are  oysters  and  a  partridge.  I  won't  tell 
you — you  are  already  in  a  bad  temper.  Besides,  I  all 
but  told  her  that  we  are  not  going. 

Monsieur  (raising  his  hands  aloft) — I  thought  so. 

[128] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

She  and  her  evening  may  go  to  the  dogs.  What  have  I 
done  to  this  woman  that  she  should  so  pester  me? 

Madame — But  she  thinks  she  is  affording  you  pleas- 
ure. She  is  a  charming  friend.  As  for  me,  I  like  her 
because  she  always  speaks  well  of  you.  If  you  had 
been  hidden  in  that  cabinet  during  her  visit,  you  could 
not  have  helped  blushing.  (He  shrugs  his  shoulders.} 
"Your  husband  is  so  amiable,"  she  said  to  me,  "so 
cheery,  so  witty.  Try  to  bring  him;  it  is  an  honor  to 
have  him."  I  said,  "Certainly,"  but  without  meaning 
it,  you  know.  But  I  don't  care  about  it  at  all.  It  is 
not  so  very  amusing  at  Madame  de  Lyr's.  She  always 
invites  such  a  number  of  serious  people.  No  doubt 
they  are  influential  people,  and  may  prove  useful,  but 
what  does  that  matter  to  me?  Come  to  dinner.  You 
know  that  there  is  a  bottle  left  of  that  famous  Pomard ; 
I  have  kept  it  for  your  partridge.  You  can  not  imagine 
what  pleasure  I  feel  in  seeing  you  eat  a  partridge.  You 
eat  it  with  such  a  gusto.  You  are  a  glutton,  my  dear. 
(She  takes  his  arm.}  Come,  I  can  hear  your  rascal  of 
a  son  getting  impatient  in  the  dining-room. 

Monsieur  (with  a  preoccupied  air] — Hum !  and  when 
is  it? 

Madame — When  is  what  ? 

Monsieur — The  party,  of  course. 

Madame — Ah!  you  mean  the  ball — I  was  not  think- 
ing of  it.  Madame  de  Lyr's  ball.  Why  do  you  ask 
me  that,  since  we  are  not  going  ?  Let  us  make  haste, 
dinner  is  getting  cold.  .  .  .  This  evening. 

Monsieur  (stopping  short) — What!  this  party  is  a 
ball,  and  this  ball  is  for  this  evening.  But,  hang  it! 
9  [129] 


GUSTAYE  DROZ 

people  don't  invite  you  to  a  ball  like  that.  They  al- 
ways give  notice  some  time  beforehand. 

Madame — But  she  sent  us  an  invitation  a  week  ago, 
though  I  don't  know  what  became  of  the  card.  I  forgot 
to  show  it  to  you. 

Monsieur — You  forgot!  you  forgot! 

Madame — Well,  it  is  all  for  the  best;  I  know  you 
would  have  been  sulky  all  the  week  after.  Come  to 
dinner. 

They  sat  down  to  table.  The  cloth  was  white,  the 
cutlery  bright,  the  oysters  fresh;  the  partridge,  cooked 
to  perfection,  exhaled  a  delightful  odor.  Madame  was 
charming,  and  laughed  at  everything.  Monsieur  un- 
bent his  brows  and  stretched  himself  on  the  chair. 

Monsieur — This  Pomard  is  very  good.  Won't  you 
have  some,  little  dear? 

Madame — Yes,  your  little  dear  will.  (She  pushes 
forward  her  glass  with  a  coquettish  movement.} 

Monsieur — Ah!  you  have  put  on  your  Louis  Seize 
ring.  It  is  a  very  pretty  ring. 

Madame  (putting  her  hand  under  her  husband's  nose) 
— Yes;  but  look — see,  there  is  a  little  bit  coming  off. 

Monsieur  (kissing  his  wife's  hand} — Where  is  the 
little  bit? 

Madame  (smiling} — You  jest  at  everything.  I  am 
speaking  seriously.  There — look — it  is  plain  enough! 
(They  draw  near  one  another  and  bend  their  heads  to- 
gether to  see  it.)  Don't  you  see  it  ?  (She  points  out  a 
spot  on  the  ring  with  a  rosy  and  slender  finger.)  There ! 
do  you  see  now — there? 

Monsieur — That  little  pearl  which—  What  on  earth 

[130] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

have  you  been  putting  on  your  hair,  my  dear?  It 
smells  very  nice — You  must  send  it  to  the  jeweller. 
The  scent  is  exquisite.  Curls  don't  become  you  badly. 

Madame — Do  you  think  so?  (She  adjusts  her  coif- 
fure with  her  white  hand.)  I  thought  you  would  like 
that  scent;  now,  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  should— 

Monsieur — What  would  you  do  in  my  place,  dear? 

Madame — I  should — kiss  my  wife. 

Monsieur  (kissing  her) — Well,  I  must  say  you  have 
very  bright  ideas  sometimes.  Give  me  a  little  bit 
more  partridge,  please.  (With  his  mouth  full.)  How 
pretty  these  poor  little  creatures  look  when  running 
among  the  corn.  You  know  the  cry  they  give  when  the 
sun  sets? — A  little  gravy. — There  are  moments  when 
the  poetic  side  of  country  life  appeals  to  one.  And 
to  think  that  there  are  barbarians  who  eat  them  with 
cabbage.  But  (filling  his  glass)  have  you  a  gown 
ready? 

Madame  (with  innocent  astonishment.) — What  for, 
dear? 

Monsieur — Why,  for  Madame  de  Lyr's 

Madame — For  the  ball? — What  a  memory  you  have 
— There  you  are  still  thinking  of  it —  No,  I  have  not 
— ah!  yes,  I  have  my  tarletan,  you  know;  but  then  a 
woman  needs  so  little  to  make  up  a  ball-room  toilette. 

Monsieur — And  the  hairdresser,  has  he  been  sent 
for? 

Madame — No,  he  has  not  been  sent  for;  but  I  am 
not  anxious  to  go  to  this  ball.  We  will  settle  down  by 
the  fireside,  read  a  little,  and  go  to  bed  early.  You 
remind  me,  however,  that,  on  leaving,  Madame  de  Lyr 

[131] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

did  say,  "Your  hairdresser  is  the  same  as  mine,  I  will 
send  him  word."  How  stupid  I  am;  I  remember  now 
that  I  did  not  answer  her.  But  it  is  not  far,  I  can  send 
Marie  to  tell  him  not  to  come. 

Monsieur — Since  this  blessed  hairdresser  has  been 
told,  let  him  come  and  we  will  go  and — amuse  ourselves 
a  little  at  Madame  de  Lyr's.  But  on  one  condition 
only;  that  I  find  all  my  dress  things  laid  out  in  readi- 
ness on  my  bed  with  my  gloves,  you  know,  and  that 
you  tie  my  necktie. 

Madame — A  bargain.  (She  kisses  him.)  You  are  a 
jewel  of  a  husband.  I  am  delighted,  my  poor  dear, 
because  I  see  you  are  imposing  a  sacrifice  upon  your- 
self in  order  to  please  me;  since,  as  to  the  ball  itself,  I 
am  quite  indifferent,  about  it.  I  did  not  care  to  go; 
really  now  I  don't  care  to  go. 

Monsieur — Hum.  Well,  I  will  go  and  smoke  a  cigar 
so  as  not  to  be  in  your  way,  and  at  ten  o'clock  I  will  be 
back  here.  Your  preparations  will  be  over  and  in  five 
minutes  I  shall  be  dressed.  Adieu. 

Madame — Au  revoir. 

Monsieur,  after  reaching  the  street,  lit  his  cigar  and 
buttoned  up  his  great-coat.  Two  hours  to  kill.  It 
seems  a  trifle  when  one  is  busy,  but  when  one  has 
nothing  to  do  it  is  quite  another  thing.  The  pavement 
is  slippery,  rain  is  beginning  to  fall — fortunately  the 
Palais  Royal  is  not  far  off.  At  the  end  of  his  four- 
teenth tour  round  the  arcades,  Monsieur  looks  at  his 
watch.  Five  minutes  to  ten,  he  will  be  late.  He 
rushes  home. 

In  the  courtyard  the  carriage  is  standing  waiting. 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

In  the  bedroom  two  unshaded  lamps  shed  floods  of 
light.  Mountains  of  muslin  and  ribbons  are  piled  on 
the  bed  and  the  furniture.  Dresses,  skirts,  petticoats, 
and  under-petticoats,  lace,  scarfs,  flowers,  jewels,  are 
mingled  in  a  charming  chaos.  On  the  table  there  are 
pots  of  pomade,  sticks  of  cosmetic,  hairpins,  combs 
and  brushes,  all  carefully  set  out.  Two  artificial  plaits 
stretch  themselves  languishingly  upon  a  dark  mass  not 
unlike  a  large  handful  of  horsehair.  A  golden  hair 
net,  combs  of  pale  tortoise-shell  and  bright  coral,  clus- 
ters of  roses,  sprays  of  white  lilac,  bouquets  of  pale 
violets,  await  the  choice  of  the  artist  or  the  caprice  of 
the  beauty.  And  yet,  must  I  say  it  ?  amidst  this  luxury 
of  wealth  Madame's  hair  is  undressed,  Madame  is  un- 
easy, Madame  is  furious. 

Monsieur  (looking  at  his  watch) — Well,  my  dear,  is 
your  hair  dressed  ? 

Madame  (impatiently) — He  asks  me  whether  my 
hair  is  dressed  ?  Don't  you  see  that  I  have  been  wait- 
ing for  the  hairdresser  for  an  hour  and  a  half  ?  Can't 
you  see  that  I  am  furious,  for  he  won't  come,  the 
horrid  wretch  ? 

Monsieur — The  monster! 

Madame — Yes,  the  monster;  and  I  would  advise  you 
not  to  joke  about  it. 

There  is  a  ring.  The  door  opens  and  the  lady's- 
maid  exclaims,  "It  is  he,  Madame!" 

Madame — It  is  he! 

Monsieur — It  is  he! 

The  artist  enters  hurriedly  and'  bows  while  turning 
his  sleeves  up. 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Madame — My  dear  Silvani,  this  is  unbearable. 

Silvani — Very  sorry,  very,  but  could  not  come  any 
sooner.  I  have  been  dressing  hair  since  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon.  I  have  just  left  the  Duchesse  de  W., 
who  is  going  to  the  Ministry  this  evening.  She  sent 
me  home  in  her  brougham.  Lisette,  give  me  your  mis- 
tress's combs,  and  put  the  curling-tongs  in  the  fire. 

Madame — But,  my  dear  Silvani,  my  maid's  name  is 
not  Lisette. 

Silvani — You  will  understand,  Madame,  that  if  I  had 
to  remember  the  names  of  all  the  lady's-maids  who  help 
me,  I  should  need  six  clerks  instead  of  four.  Lisette  is 
a  pretty  name  which  suits  all  these  young  ladies  very 
well.  Lisette,  show  me  your  mistress's  dress.  Good. 
Is  the  ball  an  official  one? 

Madame — But  dress  my  hair,  Silvani. 

Silvani — It  is  impossible  for  me  to  dress  your  hair, 
Madame,  unless  I  know  the  circle  in  which  the  coiffure 
will  be  worn.  (To  the  husband,  seated  in  the  corner.} 
May  I  beg  you,  Monsieur,  to  take  another  place  ?  I  wish 
to  be  able  to  step  back,  the  better  to  judge  the  effect. 

Monsieur — Certainly,  Monsieur  Silvani,  only  too 
happy  to  be  agreeable  to  you.  (He  sits  down  on  a 
chair,) 

Madame  (hastily) — Not  there,  my  dear,  you  will 
rumple  my  skirt.  (The  husband  gets  up  and  looks  for 
another  seat.)  Take  care  behind  you,  you  are  stepping 
on  my  bustle. 

Monsieur  (turning  round  angrily) — Her  bustle!  her 
bustle ! 

Madame — Now  you  go  upsetting  my  pins. 

[i34] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Silvani — May  I  beg  a  moment  of  immobility,  Ma- 
dame? 

Monsieur — Come,  calm  yourself,  I  will  go  into  the 
drawing-room ;  is  there  a  fire  there  ? 

Madame  (inattentively) — But,  my  dear,  how  can  you 
expect  a  fire  to  be  in  the  drawing-room  ? 

Monsieur — I  will  go  to  my  study,  then. 

Madame — There  is  none  there,  either.  What  do  you 
want  a  fire  in  your  study  for?  What  a  singular  idea! 
High  up,  you  know,  Silvani,  and  a  dash  of  disorder,  it 
is  all  the  rage. 

Silvani — Would  you  allow  a  touch  of  brown  under 
the  eyes  ?  That  would  enable  me  to  idealize  the  coif- 
fure. 

Monsieur  (impatiently) — Marie,  give  me  my  top-coat 
and  my  cap.  I  will  walk  up  and  down  in  the  ante- 
room. (Aside.)  Madame  de  Lyr  shall  pay  for  this. 

Silvani  (crimping) — I  leave  your  ear  uncovered,  Ma- 
dame; it  would  be  a  sin  to  veil  it.  It  is  like  that  of 
the  Princesse  de  K.,  whose  hair  I  dressed  yesterday. 
Lisette,  get  the  powder  ready.  Ears  like  yours,  Ma- 
dame, are  not  numerous. 

Madame — You  were  saying 

Silvani — Would  your  ear,  Madame,  be  so  modest  as 
not  to  listen? 

Madame's  hair  is  at  length  dressed.  Silvani  sheds  a 
light  cloud  of  scented  powder  over  his  work,  on  which 
he  casts  a  lingering  look  of  satisfaction,  then  bows  and 
retires. 

In  passing  through  the  anteroom,  he  runs  against 
Monsieur,  who  is  walking  up  and  down. 

[i35] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Silvani — A  thousand  pardons,  I  have  the  honor  to 
wish  you  good  night. 

Monsieur  (from  the  depths  of  his  turned-up  collar)— 
Good-night. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  sound  of  a  carriage  is 
heard.  Madame  is  ready,  her  coiffure  suits  her,  she 
smiles  at  herself  in  the  glass  as  she  slips  the  glove- 
stretchers  into  the  twelve-button  gloves. 

Monsieur  has  made  a  failure  of  his  necktie  and 
broken  off  three  buttons.  Traces  of  decided  ill-humor 
are  stamped  on  his  features. 

Monsieur — Come,  let  us  go  down,  the  carriage  is 
waiting;  it  is  a  quarter  past  eleven.  (Aside.}  Another 
sleepless  night.  Sharp,  coachman;  Rue  de  la  Pepi- 
niere,  number  224. 

They  reach  the  street  in  question.  The  Rue  de  la 
Pepiniere  is  in  a  tumult.  Policemen  are  hurriedly  mak- 
ing way  through  the  crowd.  In  the  distance,  confused 
cries  and  a  rapidly  approaching,  rumbling  sound  are 
heard.  Monsieur  thrusts  his  head  out  of  the  window. 

Monsieur — What  is  it,  Jean? 

Coachman — A  fire,  Monsieur;  here  come  the  firemen. 

Monsieur — Go  on  all  the  same  to  number  224. 

Coachman — We  are  there,  Monsieur;  the  fire  is  at 
number  224. 

Doorkeeper  of  the  House  (quitting  a  group  of  people 
and  approaching  the  carriage) — You  are,  I  presume, 
Monsieur,  one  of  the  guests  of  Madame  de  Lyr?  She 
is  terror-stricken ;  the  fire  is  in  her  rooms.  She  can  not 
receive  any  one. 

Madame  (excitedly) — It  is  scandalous. 

[136] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Monsieur  (humming) — Heart-breaking,  heart-break- 
ing! (To  the  coachman.)  Home  again,  quickly;  I  am 
all  but  asleep.  (He  stretches  himself  out  and  turns  up 
his  collar.  Aside.)  After  all,  I  am  the  better  for  a 
well-cooked  partridge. 


[i37] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  FALSE  ALARM 

VERY  time  I  visit  Paris,  which,  un- 
happily, is  too  often,  it  rains  in  tor- 
rents. It  makes  no  difference  whether 
I  change  the  time  of  starting  from 
that  which  I  had  fixed  upon  at  first, 
stop  on  the  way,  travel  at  night,  re- 
sort, in  short,  to  a  thousand  devices 
to  deceive  the  barometer — at  ten 
leagues  from  Paris  the  clouds  begin  to  pile  up  and  I 
get  out  of  the  train  amidst  a  general  deluge. 

On  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit  I  found  myself  as 
usual  in  the  street,  followed  by  a  street  porter  carrying 
my  luggage  and  addressing  despairing  signals  to  all  the 
cabs  trotting  quickly  past  amid  the  driving  rain. 
After  ten  minutes  of  futile  efforts  a  driver,  more  sensi- 
ble than  the  others,  and  hidden  in  his  triple  cape, 
checks  his  horses.  With  a  single  bound  I  am  beside 
the  cab,  and  opening,  the  door  with  a  kind  of  frenzy, 
jump  in. 

Unfortunately,  while  I  am  accomplishing  all  this  on 
one  side,  a  gentleman,  similarly  circumstanced,  opens 
the  other  door  and  also  jumps  in.  It  is  easy  to  under- 
stand that  there  ensues  a  collision. 

" Devil  take  you!"  said  my  rival,  apparently  inclined 
to  push  still  farther  forward. 

[138] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

I  was  about  to  answer  him,  and  pretty  sharply,  too, 
for  I  hail  from  the  south  of  France  and  am  rather  hot- 
headed, when  our  eyes  met.  We  looked  one  another  in 
the  face  like  two  lions  over  a  single  sheep,  and  sud- 
denly we  both  burst  out  laughing.  This  angry  gentle- 
man was  Oscar  V.,  that  dear  good  fellow  Oscar,  whom 
I  had  not  seen  for  ten  years,  and  who  is  a  very  old 
friend  of  mine,  a  charming  fellow  whom  I  used  to  play 
with  as  a  boy. 

We  embraced,  and  the  driver,  who  was  looking  at  us 
through  the  window,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  unable  to 
understand  it  all.  The  two  porters,  dripping  with 
water,  stood,  one  at  each  door,  with  a  trunk  on  his 
shoulder.  We  had  the  luggage  put  on  the  cab  and 
drove  off  to  the  Hotel  du  Louvre,  where  Oscar  insisted 
on  dropping  me. 

"But  you  are  travelling,  too,  then?"  said  I  to  my 
friend,  after  the  first  moments  of  expansion.  "Don't 
you  live  in  Paris?" 

"I  live  in  it  as  little  as  possible  and  have  just  come 
up  from  Les  Roches,  an  old-fashioned  little  place  I  in- 
herited from  my  father,  at  which  I  pass  a  great  deal  of 
the  year.  Oh!  it  is  not  a  chateau;  it  is  rustic,  countri- 
fied, but  I  like  it,  and  would  not  change  anything  about 
it.  The  country  around  is  fresh  and  green,  a  clear  little 
river  flows  past  about  forty  yards  from  the  house,  amid 
the  trees;  there  is  a  mill  in  the  background,  a  spread- 
ing valley,  a  steeple  and  its  weather-cock  on  the  hori- 
zon, flowers  under  the  windows,  and  happiness  in  the 
house.  Can  I  grumble?  My  wife  makes  exquisite 
pastry,  which  is  very  agreeable  to  me  and  helps  to 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

whiten  her  hands.  By  the  way,  I  did  not  tell  you  that 
I  am  married.  My  dear  fellow,  I  came  across  an  angel, 
and  I  rightly  thought  that  if  I  let  her  slip  I  should  not 
find  her  equal.  I  did  wisely.  But  I  want  to  introduce 
you  to  my  wife  and  to  show  you  my  little  place.  When 
will  you  come  and  see  me?  It  is  three  hours  from 
Paris — time  to  smoke  a  couple  of  cigars.  It  is  settled, 
then — I  am  going  back  to-morrow  morning  and  I  will 
have  a  room  ready  for  you.  Give  me  your  card  and  I 
will  write  down  my  address  on  it." 

All  this  was  said  so  cordially  that  I  could  not  resist 
my  friend's  invitation,  and  promised  to  visit  him. 

Three  or  four  days  later,  Paris  being  empty  and  the 
recollection  of  my  old  companion  haunting  me,  I  felt  a 
strong  desire  to  take  a  peep  at  his  conjugal  felicity  and 
to  see  with  my  own  eyes  this  stream,  this  mill,  this 
steeple,  beside  all  which  he  was  so  happy. 

I  reached  Les  Roches  at  about  six  in  the  evening  and 
was  charmed  at  the  very  first  glance.  Oscar's  resi- 
dence was  a  little  Louis  Quinze  chateau  buried  in  the 
trees;  irregularly  built,  but  charmingly  picturesque. 
It  had  been  left  unaltered  for  a  century  at  least,  and 
everything,  from  the  blackened  mansard  roofs  with 
their  rococo  weather-cocks,  to  the  bay  windows  with 
their  tiny  squares  of  glass  and  the  fantastic  escutcheon 
over  the  door,  was  in  keeping.  Over  the  thick  tiles 
of  the  somewhat  sunken  roof,  the  rough -barked  old 
chestnuts  lazily  stretched  their  branches.  Creepers  and 
climbing  roses  wantoned  over  the  front,  framing  the 
windows,  peeping  into  the  garrets,  and  clinging  to  the 
water-spouts,  laden  with  large  bunches  of  flowers  which 

[140] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

swayed  gently  in  the  air.  Amid  all  these  pointed  roofs 
and  this  profusion  of  verdure  and  trees  the  blue  sky 
could  only  be  caught  a  glimpse  of  here  and  there. 

The  first  person  I  saw  was  Oscar,  clad  in  white  from 
head  to  foot,  and  wearing  a  straw  hat.  He  was  seated 
on  an  enormous  block  of  stone  which  seemed  part  and 
parcel  of  the  house,  and  appeared  very  much  interested 
in  a  fine  melon  which  his  gardener  had  just  brought  to 
him.  No  sooner  had  he  caught  sight  of  me  than  he 
darted  forward  and  grasped  me  by  the  hand  with  such 
an  expression  of  good-humor  and  affection  that  I  said 
to  myself,  "Yes,  certainly  he  was  not  deceiving  me,  he 
is  happy."  I  found  him  just  as  I  had  known  him  in 
his  youth,  lively,  rather  wild,  but  kind  and  obliging. 

"Pierre,"  said  he  to  the  gardener,  "take  this  gentle- 
man's portmanteau  to  the  lower  room,"  and,  as  the 
gardener  bestirred  himself  slowly  and  with  an  effort, 
Oscar  seized  the  portmanteau  and  swung  it,  with  a 
jerk,  on  to  the  shoulders  of  the  poor  fellow,  whose  legs 
bent  under  the  weight. 

"Lazybones,"  said  Oscar,  laughing  heartily.  "Ah! 
now  I  must  introduce  you  to  my  little  queen.  My  wife, 
where  is  my  wife?" 

He  ran  to  the  bell  and  pulled  it  twice.  At  once  a 
fat  cook  with  a  red  face  and  tucked-up  sleeves,  and  be- 
hind her  a  man-servant  wiping  a  plate,  appeared  at 
the  ground-floor  windows.  Had  they  been  chosen  on 
purpose?  I  do  not  know,  but  their  faces  and  bearing 
harmonized  so  thoroughly  with  the  picture  that  I  could 
not  help  smiling. 

"Where  is  your  mistress?"  asked  Oscar,  and  as  they 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

did  not  answer  quickly  enough  he  exclaimed,  "Marie, 
Marie,  here  is  my  friend  George." 

A  young  girl,  fair  as  a  lily,  appeared  at  a  narrow, 
little  window,  the  one  most  garlanded  by  flowers,  on 
the  first  floor.  She  was  clad  in  a  white  dressing-gown 
of  some  particular  shape;  I  could  not  at  first  make  out. 
With  one  hand  she  gathered  its  folds  about  her,  and 
with  the  other  restrained  her  flowing  hair.  Hardly 
had  she  seen  me  when  she  blushed,  somewhat  ashamed, 
no  doubt,  at  having  been  surprised  in  the  midst  of  her 
toilet,  and,  giving  a  most  embarrassed  yet  charming 
bow,  hurriedly  disappeared.  This  vision  completed 
the  charm;  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  suddenly  been 
transported  into  fairy-land.  I  had  fancied  when 
strapping  my  portmanteau  that  I  should  find  my  friend 
Oscar  installed  in  one  of  those  pretty,  little,  smart- 
looking  houses,  with  green  shutters  and  gilt  lightning- 
conductor,  dear  to  the  countrified  Parisian,  and  here 
I  found  myself  amid  an  ideal  blending  of  time-worn 
stones  hidden  in  flowers,  ancient  gables,  and  fanciful 
ironwork  reddened  by  rust.  I  was  right  in  the  midst 
of  one  of  Morin's  sketches,  and,  charmed  and  stupefied, 
I  stood  for  some  moments  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  the 
narrow  window  at  which  the  fair  girl  had  disappeared. 

"I  call  her  my  little  queen,"  said  Oscar,  taking  my 
arm.  "It  is  my  wife.  Come  this  way,  we  shall  meet 
my  cousin  who  is  fishing,  and  two  other  friends  who  are 
strolling  about  in  this  direction,  good  fellows,  only  they 
do  not  understand  the  country  as  I  do — they  have  on 
silk  stockings  and  pumps,  but  it  does  not  matter,  does 
it  ?  Would  you  like  a  pair  of  slippers  or  a  straw  hat  ? 

[142] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

I  hope  you  have  brought  some  linen  jackets.  I  won't 
offer  you  a  glass  of  Madeira — we  shall  dine  at  once. 
Ah!  my  dear  fellow,  you  have  turned  up  at  the  right 
moment;  we  are  going  to  taste  the  first  melon  of  the 
year  this  evening." 

"Unfortunately,  I  never  eat  melons,  though  I  like  to 
see  others  do  so." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  offer  you  consolation  by  seeking 
out  a  bottle  of  my  old  Pomard  for  you.  Between  our- 
selves, I  don't  give  it  to  every  one;  it  is  a  capital  wine 
which  my  poor  father  recommended  to  me  on  his  death- 
bed; poor  father,  his  eyes  were  closed,  and  his  head 
stretched  back  on  the  pillow.  I  was  sitting  beside  his 
bed,  my  hand  in  his,  when  I  felt  it  feebly  pressed.  His 
eyes  half  opened,  and  I  saw  him  smile.  Then  he  said 
in  a  weak,  slow,  and  the  quavering  voice  of  an  old  man 
who  is  dying:  "The  Pomard  at  the  farther  end — on 
the  left — you  know,  my  boy — only  for  friends.'  He 
pressed  my  hand  again,  and,  as  if  exhausted,  closed 
his  eyes,  though  I  could  see  by  the  imperceptible 
motion  of  his  lips  that  he  was  still  smiling  inwardly — 
Come  with  me  to  the  cellar,"  continued  Oscar,  after  a 
brief  silence,  "at  the  farther  end  to  the  left,  you  shall 
hold  the  lantern  for  me." 

When  we  came  up  from  the  cellar,  the  bell  was  ring- 
ing furiously,  and  flocks  of  startled  birds  were  flying 
out  of  the  chestnut-trees.  It  was  for  dinner.  All  the 
guests  were  in  the  garden.  Oscar  introduced  me  in 
his  off-hand  way,  and  I  offered  my  arm  to  the  mistress 
of  the  house  to  conduct  her  to  the  dining-room. 

On  examining  my  friend's  wife,  I  saw  that  my  first 
[143] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

impression  had  not  been  erroneous — she  was  literally  a 
little  angel,  and  a  little  angel  in  the  shape  of  a  woman, 
which  is  all  the  better.  She  was  delicate,  slender  as  a 
young  girl;  her  voice  was  as  thrilling  and  harmonious 
as  the  chaffinch,  with  an  indefinable  accent  that  smacked 
of  no  part  of  the  country  in  particular,  but  lent  a  charm 
to  her  slightest  word.  She  had,  moreover,  a  way  of 
speaking  of  her  own,  a  childish  and  coquettish  way  of 
modulating  the  ends  of  her  sentences  and  turning  her 
eyes  toward  her  husband,  as  if  to  seek  for  his  approba- 
tion. She  blushed  every  moment,  but  at  the  same  time 
her  smile  was  so  bewitching  and  her  teeth  so  white 
that  she  seemed  to  be  laughing  at  herself.  A  charm- 
ing little  woman!  Add  to  this  a  strange  yet  tasteful 
toilette,  rather  daring,  perhaps,  but  suiting  this  little 
queen,  so  singular  in  herself.  Her  beautiful  fair  hair, 
twisted  up  apparently  at  hazard,  was  fixed  rather  high 
up  on  the  head  by  a  steel  comb  worn  somewhat  on  one 
side;  and  her  white  muslin  dress  trimmed  with  wide, 
flat  ruches,  cut  square  at  the  neck,  short  in  the  skirt, 
and  looped  up  all  round,  had  a  delicious  eighteenth- 
century  appearance.  The  angel  was  certainly  a  trifle 
coquettish,  but  in  her  own  way,  and  yet  her  way  was 
exquisite. 

Hardly  were  we  seated  at  table  when  Oscar  threw 
toward  his  little  queen  a  rapid  glance,  but  one  so  full 
of  happiness  and — why  should  I  not  say  it  ? — love  that 
I  experienced  a  kind  of  shiver,  a  thrill  of  envy,  aston- 
ishment, and  admiration,  perhaps.  He  took  from  the 
basket  of  flowers  on  the  table  a  red  rose,  scarcely 
opened,  and,  pushing  it  toward  her,  said  with  a  smile: 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"For  your  hair,  Madame." 

The  fair  girl  blushed  deeply,  took  the  flower,  and, 
without  hesitation,  quickly  and  dexterously  stuck  it  in 
her  hair,  high  up  on  the  left,  just  in  the  right  spot,  and, 
delightedly  turning  round  to  each  of  us,  repeated 
several  times,  amid  bursts  of  laughter,  "Is  it  right 
like  that?" 

Then  she  wafted  a  tiny  kiss  with  the  tips  of  her  fin- 
gers to  her  husband,  as  a  child  of  twelve  would  have 
done,  and  gayly  plunged  her  spoon  into  the  soup,  turn- 
ing up  her  little  finger  as  she  did  so. 

The  other  guests  had  nothing  very  remarkable  about 
them;  they  laughed  very  good-naturedly  at  these  child- 
ish ways,  but  seemed  somewhat  out  of  place  amid  all 
this  charming  freedom  from  restraint.  The  cousin, 
above  all,  the  angler,  with  his  white  waistcoat,  his  blue 
tie,  his  full  beard,  and  his  almond  eyes,  especially  dis- 
pleased me.  He  rolled  his  r's  like  an  actor  at  a  coun- 
try theatre.  He  broke  his  bread  into  little  bits  and 
nibbled  them  as  he  talked.  I  divined  that  the  pleasure 
of  showing  off  a  large  ring  he  wore  had  something  to 
do  with  this  fancy  for  playing  with  his  bread.  Once 
or  twice  I  caught  a  glance  of  melancholy  turned  toward 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  but  at  first  I  did  not  take 
much  notice  of  it,  my  attention  being  attracted  by  the 
brilliant  gayety  of  Oscar. 

It  seemed  to  me,  however,  at  the  end  of  a  minute  or 
so,  that  this  young  man  was  striving  in  a  thousand 
ways  to  engage  the  attention  of  the  little  queen. 

The  latter,  however,  answered  him  in  the  most  nat- 
ural way  in  the  world,  neither  betraying  constraint  nor 
10  [  MS  ] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

embarrassment.  I  was  mistaken,  no  doubt.  Have 
you  ever  noticed,  when  you  are  suddenly  brought  into 
the  midst  of  a  circle  where  you  are  unacquainted,  how 
certain  little  details,  matters  of  indifference  to  every 
one  else,  assume  importance  in  your  eyes?  The  first 
impression  is  based  upon  a  number  of  trifles  that  catch 
your  attention  at  the  outset.  A  stain  in  the  ceiling,  a 
nail  in  the  wall,  a  feature  of  your  neighbor's  counte- 
nance impresses  itself  upon  your  mind,  installs  itself 
there,  assumes  importance,  and,  in  spite  of  yourself,  all 
the  other  observations  subsequently  made  by  you  group 
around  this  spot,  this  nail,  this  grimace.  Think  over 
it,  dear  reader,  and  you  will  see  that  every  opinion  you 
may  have  as  to  a  fact,  a  person,  or  an  object  has  been 
sensibly  influenced  by  the  recollection  of  the  little  trifle 
that  caught  your  eye  at  the  first  glance.  What  young 
girl  victim  of  first  impressions  has  not  refused  one  or 
two  husbands  on  account  of  a  waistcoat  too  loose,  a 
cravat  badly  tied,  an  inopportune  sneeze,  a  foolish 
smile,  or  a  boot  too  pointed  at  the  toe  ? 

One  does  not  like  admitting  to  one's  self  that  such 
trifles  can  serve  as  a  base  to  the  opinion  one  has  of  any 
one,  and  one  must  seek  attentively  in  order  to  discover 
within  one's  mind  these  unacknowledged  germs. 

I  recollect  quite  well  that  the  first  time  I  had  the 
honor  of  calling  on  Madame  de  M.,  I  noticed  that  one 
of  her  teeth,  the  first  molar  on  the  right,  was  quite 
black.  I  only  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  little  black 
monster,  such  was  the  care  taken  to  hide  it,  yet  I  could 
not  get  this  discovery  out  of  my  head.  I  soon  noticed 
that  Madame  de  M.  made  frightful  grimaces  to  hide 

[146] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

her  tooth,  and  that  she  took  only  the  smallest  possible 
mouthfuls  at  table  to  spare  the  nervous  susceptibilities 
of  the  little  monster. 

I  arrived  at  the  pitch  of  accounting  for  all  the  mental 
and  physical  peculiarities  of  Madame  de  M.  by  the 
presence  of  this  slight  blemish,  and  despite  myself  this 
black  tooth  personified  the  Countess  so  well  that  even 
now,  although  it  has  been  replaced  by  another  mag- 
nificent one,  twice  as  big  and  as  white  as  the  bottom 
of  a  plate,  even  now,  I  say,  Madame  de  M.  can  not 
open  her  mouth  without  my  looking  naturally  at  it. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  Amid  all  this  con- 
jugal happiness,  so  delightfully  surrounded,  face  to 
face  with  dear  old  Oscar,  so  good,  so  confiding,  so 
much  in  love  with  this  little  cherub  in  a  Louis  XV 
dress,  who  carried  grace  and  naivete  to  so  strange  a 
pitch,  I  had  been  struck  by  the  too  well  combed  and 
foppish  head  of  the  cousin  in  the  white  waistcoat. 
This  head  had  attracted  my  attention  like  the  stain  on 
the  ceiling  of  which  I  spoke  just  now,  like  the  Coun- 
tess's black  tooth,  and  despite  myself  I  did  not  take  my 
eyes  off  the  angler  as  he  passed  the  silver  blade  of  his 
knife  through  a-  slice  of  that  indigestible  fruit  which  I 
like  to  see  on  the  plates  of  others,  but  can  not  tolerate 
on  my  own. 

After  dinner,  which  lasted  a  very  long  time,  we  went 
into  the  garden,  where  coffee  had  been  served,  and 
stretched  ourselves  out  beatifically,  cigar  in  mouth. 
All  was  calm  and  silent  about  us,  the  insects  had 
ceased  their  music,  and  in  an  opaline  sky  little  violet 
clouds  were  sleeping. 

[i47] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Oscar,  with  a  happy  air,  pointed  out  to  me  the 
famous  mill,  the  quiet  valley,  and  farther  on  his  loved 
stream,  in  which  the  sun,  before  setting,  was  reflecting 
itself  amid  the  reeds.  Meanwhile  the  little  queen  on 
her  high  heels  flitted  round  the  cups  like  a  child  play- 
ing at  party-giving,  and  with  a  thousand  charming 
touches  poured  out  the  boiling  coffee,  the  odor  of 
which  blended  deliciously  with  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers,  the  hay,  and  the  woods. 

When  she  had  finished  she  sat  down  beside  her  hus- 
band, so  close  that  her  skirt  half  hid  my  friend,  and 
unceremoniously  taking  the  cigar  from  his  lips,  held  it 
at  a  distance,  with  a  little  pout,  that  meant,  "Oh,  the 
horrid  thing!"  and  knocked  off  with  her  little  finger 
the  ash  which  fell  on  the  gravel.  Then  she  broke  into 
a  laugh,  and  put  the  cigar  back  between  the  lips  of  her 
husband  held  out  to  her. 

It  was  charming.  Oscar  was  no  doubt  accustomed 
to  this,  for  he  did  not  seem  astonished,  but  placed  his 
hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder,  as  one  would  upon  a 
child's,  and,  kissing  her  on  the  forehead,  said,  "Thanks, 
my  dear." 

"Yes,  but  you  are  only  making  fun  of  me,"  said  the 
young  wife,  in  a  whisper,  leaning  her  head  against  her 
husband's  arm. 

I  could  not  help  smiling,  there  was  so  much  coaxing 
childishness  and  grace  in  this  little  whispered  sentence. 
I  do  not  know  why  I  turned  toward  the  cousin  who  had 
remained  a  little  apart,  smoking  in  silence.  He  seemed 
to  me  rather  pale;  he  took  three  or  four  sudden 
puffs,  rose  suddenly  under  the  evident  influence  of 

[148] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

some  moral  discomfort,  and  walked  away  beneath  the 
trees. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  cousin?"  said  Oscar,  with 
some  interest.  "What  ails  him?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  the  little  queen,  in  the 
most  natural  manner  in  the  world,  "some  idea  about 
fishing,  no  doubt." 

Night  began  to  fall;  we  had  remained  as  I  have  said 
a  long  time  at  table.  It  was  about  nine  o'clock.  The 
cousin  returned  and  took  the  seat  he  had  occupied  be- 
fore, but  from  this  moment  it  seemed  to  me  that  a 
strange  constraint  crept  in  among  us,  a  singular  cool- 
ness showed  itself.  The  talk,  so  lively  at  first,  slack- 
ened gradually  and,  despite  all  my  efforts  to  impart  a 
little  life  to  it,  dragged  wretchedly.  I  myself  did  not 
feel  very  bright;  I  was  haunted  by  the  most  absurd 
notions  in  the  world;  I  thought  I  had  detected  in  the 
sudden  departure  of  the  cousin,  in  his  pallor,  in  his 
embarrassed  movements,  the  expression  of  some  strong 
feeling  which  he  had  been  powerless  to  hide.  But  how 
was  it  that  that  adorable  little  woman  with  such  a  keen 
intelligent  look  did  not  understand  all  this,  since  I  un- 
derstood it  myself?  Had  not  Oscar,  however  con- 
fiding he  might  be,  noted  that  the  departure  of  the 
cousin  exactly  coincided  with  the  kiss  he  had  given  his 
wife  ?  Were  these  two  blind,  or  did  they  pretend  not 
to  see,  or  was  I  myself  the  victim  of  an  illusion  ?  How- 
ever, conversation  had  died  away;  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  singular  symptom,  was  silent  and  serious,  and 
Oscar  wriggled  in  his  chair,  like  a  man  who  is  not  al- 
together at  ease.  What  was  passing  in  their  minds? 

[149] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Soon  we  heard  the  clock  in  the  drawing-room  strike 
ten,  and  Oscar,  suddenly  rising,  said:  "My  dear  fellow, 
in  the  country  it  is  Liberty  Hall,  you  know;  so  I  will 
ask  your  permission  to  go  in — I  am  rather  tired  this 
evening.  George,"  he  added  to  me,  "they  will  show 
you  your  room;  it  is  on  the  ground  floor;  I  hope  that 
you  will  be  comfortable  there." 

Everybody  got  up  silently,  and,  after  bidding  one 
another  good-night  in  a  somewhat  constrained  manner, 
sought  their  respective  rooms.  I  thought,  I  must  ac- 
knowledge, that  they  went  to  bed  rather  too  early  at 
my  friend's.  I  had  no  wish  to  sleep;  I  therefore  ex- 
amined my  room,  which  was  charming.  It  was  com- 
pletely hung  with  an  old  figured  tapestry  framed  in 
gray  wainscot.  The  bed,  draped  in  dimity  curtains, 
was  turned  down  and  exhaled  that  odor  of  freshly 
washed  linen  which  invites  one  to  stretch  one's  self  in  it. 
On  the  table,  a  little  gem  dating  from  the  beginning  of 
the  reign  of  Louis  XVI,  were  four  or  five  books,  evi- 
dently chosen  by  Oscar  and  placed  there  for  me. 
These  little  attentions  touch  one,  and  naturally  my 
thoughts  recurred  to  the  dear  fellow,  to  the  strange 
incident  of  the  evening,  to  the  vexations  and  tortures 
hidden,  perhaps,  by  this  apparent  happiness.  I  was 
ridiculous  that  night — I  already  pitied  him,  my  poor 
friend. 

I  felt  quite  touched,  and,  full  of  melancholy,  went 
and  leaned  against  the  sill  of  the  open  window.  The 
moon  had  just  risen,  the  sky  was  beautifully  clear, 
whiffs  of  delicious  perfumes  assailed  my  nostrils.  I 
saw  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  glowworms  sparkling 

[150] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

on  the  grass,  and,  in  the  masses  of  verdure  lit  up  mys- 
teriously by  the  moon,  I  traced  strange  shapes  of  fan- 
tastic monsters.  There  was,  above  all,  a  little  pointed 
roof  surmounted  by  a  weathercock,  buried  in  the  trees 
at  about  fifty  paces  from  my  window,  which  greatly  in- 
terested me.  I  could  not  in  the  obscurity  make  out 
either  door  or  windows  belonging  to  this  singular 
tower.  Was  it  an  old  pigeon-house,  a  tomb,  a  deserted 
summer-house?  I  could  not  tell,  but  its  little  pointed 
roof,  with  a  round  dormer  window,  was  extremely  grace- 
ful. Was  it  chance  or  an  artist  full  of  taste  that  had 
covered  this  tower  with  creepers  and  flowers,  and  sur- 
rounded it  with  foliage  in  such  capricious  fashion  that 
it  seemed  to  be  hiding  itself  in  order  to  catch  all  glances  ? 
I  was  gazing  at  all  this  when  I  heard  a  faint  noise  in 
the  shrubbery.  I  looked  in  that  direction  and  I  saw 
— really,  it  was  an  anxious  moment — I  saw  a  phantom 
clad  in  a  white  robe  and  walking  with  mysterious  and 
agitated  rapidity.  At  a  turning  of  the  path  the  moon 
shone  on  this  phantom.  Doubt  was  impossible ;  I  had 
before  my  eyes  my  friend's  wife.  Her  gait  no  longer 
had  that  coquettish  ease  which  I  had  noticed,  but 
clearly  indicated  the  agitation  due  to  some  strong 
emotion. 

I  strove  to  banish  the  horrible  suspicion  which  sud- 
denly forced  itself  into  my  mind.  "No,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "so  much  innocence  and  beauty  can  not  be 
capable  of  deception;  no  doubt  she  has  forgotten  her 
fan  or  her  embroidery,  on  one  of  the  benches  there. " 
But  instead  of  making  her  way  toward  the  benches  I 
noticed  on  the  right,  the  young  wife  turned  to  the  left, 

[151] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

and  soon  disappeared  in  the  shadow  of  the  grove  in 
which  was  hidden  the  mysterious  turret. 

My  heart  ached.  "Where  is  she  going,  the  hapless 
woman?"  I  exclaimed  to  myself.  "At  any  rate,  I  will 
not  let  her  imagine  any  one  is  watching  her."  And  I 
hurriedly  blew  out  my  candle.  I  wanted  to  close  my 
window,  go  to  bed,  and  see  nothing  more,  but  an  in- 
vincible curiosity  took  me  back  to  the  window7.  I  had 
only  been  there  a  few  minutes  when  I  plainly  distin- 
guished halting  and  timid  footsteps  on  the  gravel.  I 
could  see  no  one  at  first,  but  there  was  no  doubt  that 
the  footsteps  were  those  of  a  man.  I  soon  had  a  proof 
that  I  was  not  mistaken;  the  elongated  outline  of  the 
cousin  showed  up  clearly  against  the  dark  mass  of 
shrubbery.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  stopped  him, 
the  wretch,  for  his  intention  was  evident;  he  was  mak- 
ing his  way  toward  the  thicket  in  which  the  little  queen 
had  disappeared.  I  should  have  liked  to  shout  to 
him,  "You  are  a  villain;  you  shall  go  no  farther."  But 
had  I  really  any  right  to  act  thus  ?  I  was  silent,  but  I 
coughed,  however,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  him. 

He  suddenly  paused  in  his  uneasy  walk,  looked 
round  on  all  sides  with  visible  anxiety,  then,  seized  by 
I  know  not  what  impulse,  darted  toward  the  pavilion. 
I  was  overwhelmed.  What  ought  I  to  do  ?  Warn  my 
friend,  my  childhood's  companion?  Yes,  no  doubt, 
but  I  felt  ashamed  to  pour  despair  into  the  mind  of  this 
good  fellow  and  to  cause  a  horrible  exposure.  "If  he 
can  be  kept  in  ignorance,"  I  said  to  myself,  "and  then 
perhaps  I  am  wrong — who  knows  ?  Perhaps  this  ren- 
dezvous is  due  to  the  most  natural  motive  possible." 

[152] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

I  was  seeking  to  deceive  myself,  to  veil  the  evidence  of 
my  own  eyes,  when  suddenly  one  of  the  house  doors 
opened  noisily,  and  Oscar — Oscar  himself,  in  all  the 
disorder  of  night  attire,  his  hair  rumpled,  and  his  dress- 
ing-gown floating  loosely,  passed  before  my  window. 
He  ran  rather  than  walked;  but  the  anguish  of  his 
heart  was  too  plainly  revealed  in  the  strangeness  of  his 
movements.  He  knew  all.  I  felt  that  a  mishap  was 
inevitable.  "Behold  the  outcome  of  all  his  happi- 
ness, behold  the  bitter  poison  enclosed  in  so  fair  a  ves- 
sel!" All  these  thoughts  shot  through  my  mind  like 
arrows.  It  was  necessary  above  all  to  delay  the  ex- 
plosion, were  it  only  for  a  moment,  a  second,  and,  beside 
myself,  without  giving  myself  time  to  think  of  what  I 
was  going  to  say  to  him,  I  cried  in  a  sharp  imperative 
tone: 

"Oscar,  come  here;  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  stopped  as  if  petrified.  He  was  ghastly  pale,  and, 
with  an  infernal  smile,  replied,  "I  have  no  time — later 
on." 

"Oscar,  you  must,  I  beg  of  you — you  are  mistaken." 

At  these  words  he  broke  into  a  fearful  laugh. 

"  Mistaken — mistaken ! " 

And  he  ran  toward  the  pavilion. 

Seizing  the  skirt  of  his  dressing-gown,  I  held  him 
tightly,  exclaiming: 

"Don't  go,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  go;  I  beg  of  you  on 
.  my  knees  not  to  go." 

j     By  way  of  reply  he  gave  me  a  hard  blow  on  the  arm 
with  his  fist,  exclaiming: 

"What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you?" 
[i53] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"I  tell  you  that  you  can  not  go  there,  Oscar,"  I  said, 
in  a  voice  which  admitted  of  no  contradiction. 
"Then  why  did  not  you  tell  me  at  once." 
And  feverishly  snatching  his  dressing-gown  from  my 
grasp,  he  began  to  walk  frantically  up  and  down. 


[i54] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

I  SUP  WITH  MY  WIFE 

s. 

"HAT  evening,  which  chanced  to  be 
Christmas  Eve,  it  was  infernally  cold. 
The  snow  was  falling  in  heavy  flakes, 
and,  driven  by  the  wind,  beat  furi- 
ously against  the  window  panes. 
The  distant  chiming  of  the  bells 
could  just  be  heard  through  this  heavy 
and  woolly  atmosphere.  Foot-pas- 
sengers, wrapped  in  their  cloaks,  slipped  rapidly  along, 
keeping  close  to  the  house  and  bending  their  heads  to 
the  wintry  blast. 

Enveloped  in  my  dressing-gown,  and  tapping  with 
my  fingers  on  the  window-panes,  I  was  smiling  at  the 
half -frozen  passers-by,  the  north  wind,  and  the  snow, 
with  the  contented  look  of  a  man  who  is  in  a  warm 
room  and  has  on  his  feet  comfortable  flannel-lined 
slippers,  the  soles  of  which  are  buried  in  a  thick  carpet. 
At  the  fireside  my  wife  was  cutting  out  something  and 
smiling  at  me  from  time  to  time;  a  new  book  awaited 
me  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  the  log  on  the  hearth  kept 
shooting  out  with  a  hissing  sound  those  little  blue 
flames  which  invite  one  to  poke  it. 

"There  is  nothing  that  looks  more  dismal  than  a 
[i55] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

man  tramping  through  the  snow,  is  there?"  said  I  to 
my  wife. 

"Hush,"  said  she,  lowering  the  scissors  which  she 
held  in  her  hand;  and,  after  smoothing  her  chin  with 
her  fingers,  slender,  rosy,  and  plump  at  their  tips,  she 
went  on  examining  the  pieces  of  stuff  she  had  cut  out. 

"I  say  that  it  is  ridiculous  to  go  out  in  the  cold  when 
it  is  so  easy  to  remain  at  home  at  one's  own  fireside." 

"Hush." 

"But  what  are  you  doing  that  is  so  important?" 

"I — I  am  cutting  out  a  pair  of  braces  for  you,"  and 
she  set  to  work  again.  But,  as  in  cutting  out  she  kept 
her  head  bent,  I  noticed,  on  passing  behind  her,  her 
soft,  white  neck,  which  she  had  left  bare  that  evening 
by  dressing  her  hair  higher  than  usual.  A  number  of 
little  downy  hairs  were  curling  there.  This  kind  of 
down  made  me  think  of  those  ripe  peaches  one  bites  so 
greedily.  I  drew  near,  the  better  to  see,  and  I  kissed 
the  back  of  my  wife's  neck. 

"Monsieur!"  said  Louise,  suddenly  turning  round. 

"Madame,"  I  replied,  and  we  both  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. 

"Christmas  Eve,"  said  I. 

"Do  you  wish  to  excuse  yourself  and  to  go  out?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  complain?" 

"Yes,  I  complain  that  you  are  not  sufficiently  im- 
pressed by  the  fact  of  its  being  Christmas  Eve.  The 
ding-ding-dong  of  the  bells  of  Notre  Dame  fails  to 
move  you ;  and  just  now  when  the  magic-lantern  passed 
beneath  the  window,  I  looked  at  you  while  pretending 
to  work,  and  you  were  quite  calm." 

[  156  ] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"I  remain  calm  when  the  magic-lantern  is  going  by! 
Ah !  my  dear,  you  are  very  severe  on  me,  and  really— 

"Yes,  yes,  jest  about  it,  but  it  was  none  the  less  true 
that  the  recollections  of  your  childhood  have  failed." 

"Now,  my  dear,  do  you  want  me  to  leave  my  boots 
out  on  the  hearth  this  evening  on  going  to  bed  ?  Do  you 
want  me  to  call  in  the  magic -lantern  man,  and  to  look 
out  a  big  sheet  and  a  candle  end  for  him,  as  my  poor 
mother  used  to  do?  I  can  still  see  her  as  she  used  to 
entrust  her  white  sheet  to  him.  *  Don't  make  a  hole  in 
it,  at  least,'  she  would  say.  How  we  used  to  clap  our 
hands  in  the  mysterious  darkness!  I  can  recall  all 
those  joys,  my  dear,  but  you  know  so  many  other 
things  have  happened  since  then.  Other  pleasures 
have  effaced  those." 

"Yes,  I  can  understand,  your  bachelor  pleasures; 
and,  there,  I  am  sure  that  this  Christmas  Eve  is  the 
first  you  have  passed  by  your  own  fireside,  in  your 
dressing-gown,  without  supper;  for  you  used  to  sup 
on  Christmas  Eve." 

"To  sup,  to  sup." 

"Yes,  you  supped;  I  will  wager  you  did." 

"I  have  supped  two  or  three  times,  perhaps,  with 
friends,  you  know;  two  sous'  worth  of  roasted  chest- 
nuts and— 

"A  glass  of  sugar  and  water." 

"  Oh,  pretty  nearly  so.  It  was  all  very  simple ;  as  far 
as  I  can  recollect.  We  chatted  a  little  and  went  to  bed." 

"And  he  says  that  without  a  smile.  You  have  never 
breathed  a  word  to  me  of  all  these  simple  pleasures." 

"But,  my  dear,  all  that  I  am  telling  you  is  strictly 
[i57] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

true.  I  remember  that  once,  however,  it  was  rather 
lively.  It  was  at  Ernest's,  and  we  had  some  music. 
Will  you  push  that  log  toward  me  ?  But,  never  mind ; 
it  will  soon  be  midnight,  and  that  is  the  hour  when 
reasonable  people — 

Louise,  rising  and  throwing  her  arms  around  my 
neck,  interrupted  me  with:  "Well,  I  don't  want  to  be 
reasonable,  I  want  to  wipe  out  all  your  memories  of 
chestnuts  and  glasses  of  sugar  and  water." 

Then  pushing  me  into  my  dressing-room  she  locked 
the  door. 

"But,  my  dear,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?"  said 
I  through  the  keyhole. 

"I  want  ten  minutes,  no  more.  Your  newspaper  is 
on  the  mantelpiece;  you  have  not  read  it  this  evening. 
There  are  some  matches  in  the  corner." 

I  heard  a  clatter  of  crockery,  a  rustling  of  silk.  Was 
my  wife  mad? 

Louise  soon  came  and  opened  the  door. 

"Don't  scold  me  for  having  shut  you  up,"  she  said, 
kissing  me.  "Look  how  I  have  beautified  myself? 
Do  you  recognize  the  coiffure  you  are  so  fond  of,  the 
chignon  high,  and  the  neck  bare?  Only  as  my  poor 
neck  is  excessively  timid,  it  would  have  never  con- 
sented to  show  itself  thus  if  I  had  not  encouraged  it  a 
little  by  wearing  my  dress  low.  And  then  one  must 
put  on  full  uniform  to  sup  with  the  authorities." 

"To  sup?" 

"Certainly,  to  sup  with  you;  don't  you  see  my  illu- 
minations and  this  table  covered  with  flowers  and  a 
heap  of  good  things?  I  had  got  it  all  ready  in  the 

[158] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

alcove;  but  you  understand  that  to  roll  the  table  up  to 
the  fire  and  make  a  little  toilette,  I  wanted  to  be  alone. 
Come,  Monsieur,  take  your  place  at  table.  I  am  as 
hungry  as  a  hunter.  May  I  offer  you  a  wing  of  cold 
chicken?" 

"Your  idea  is  charming,  but,  dear,  really  I  am 
ashamed;  I  am  in  my  dressing-gown." 

"Take  off  your  dressing-gown  if  it  incommodes  you, 
Monsieur,  but  don't  leave  this  chicken  wing  on  my 
hands.  I  want  to  serve  you  myself."  And,  rising, 
she  turned  her  sleeves  up  to  the  elbow,  and  placed  her 
table  napkin  on  her  arm. 

"It  is  thus  that  the  waiters  at  the  restaurant  do  it,  is 
it  not?" 

"Exactly;  but,  waiter,  allow  me  at  least  to  kiss  your 
hand." 

"I  have  no  time,"  said  she,  laughing,  sticking  the 
corkscrew  into  the  neck  of  the  bottle.  "Chambertin 
— it  is  a  pretty  name ;  and  then  do  you  remember  that 
before  our  marriage  (how  hard  this  cork  is!)  you  told 
me  that  you  liked  it  on  account  of  a  poem  by  Alfred  de 
Musset  ?  which,  by  the  way,  you  have  not  let  me  read 
yet.  Do  you  see  the  two  little  Bohemian  glasses  which 
I  bought  expressly  for  this  evening?  We  will  drink 
each  other's  health  in  them." 

"And  his,  too,  eh?" 

"The  heir's,  poor  dear  love  of  an  heir!  I  should 
think  so.  And  then  I  will  put  away  the  two  glasses 
against  this  time  next  year;  they  shall  be  our  Christ- 
mas Eve  glasses?  Every  year  we  will  sup  like  this 
together,  however  old  we  may  get." 

[i59] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"But,  my  dear,  how  about  the  time  when  we  have 
no  longer  any  teeth?" 

"Well,  we  will  sup  on  good  strong  soups;  it  will  be 
very  nice,  all  the  same.  Another  piece,  please,  with 
some  of  the  jelly.  Thanks." 

As  she  held  out  her  plate  I  noticed  her  arm,  the  out- 
line of  which  was  lost  in  lace. 

"Why  are  you  looking  up  my  sleeve  instead  of  eat- 
ing?"  ' 

"I  am  looking  at  your  arm,  dear.  You  are  charm- 
ing, let  me  tell  you,  this  evening.  That  coiffure  suits 
you  so  well,  and  that  dress  which  I  was  unacquainted 
with." 

"Well,  when  one  seeks  to  make  a  conquest 

"How  pretty  you  look,  pet!" 

"Is  it  true  that  you  think  me  charming,  pretty,  and 
a  pet  this  evening?  Well,  then,"  lowering  her  eyes 
and  smiling  at  her  bracelets,  "in  that  case  I  do  not  see 
why " 

"What  is  it  you  do  not  see,  dear?" 

"I  do  not  see  any  reason  why  you  should  not  come 
and  give  me  just  a  little  kiss." 

And  as  the  kiss  was  prolonged,  she  said  to  me,  amid 
bursts  of  laughter,  her  head  thrown  back,  and  show- 
ing the  double  row  of  her  white  teeth:  "I  should 
like  some  pie;  yes,  some  pie!  You  will  break  my 
Bohemian  glass,  the  result  of  my  economy.  You  al- 
ways cause  some  mishap  when  you  want  to  kiss  me. 
Do  you  recollect  at  Madame  de  Brill's  ball,  two  days 
before  our  marriage,  how  you  tore  my  skirt  while  waltz- 
ing in  the  little  drawing-room?" 

[160] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  B^BE 

"  Because  it  is  difficult  to  do  two  things  at  once — to 
keep  step  and  to  kiss  one's  partner." 

"I  recollect,  too,  when  mamma  asked  how  my  skirt 
had  got  torn,  I  felt  that  I  was  blushing  up  to  my  ears. 
And  Madame  D.,  that  old  jaundiced  fairy,  who  said  to 
me  with  her  Lenten  smile,  'How  flushed  you  are  to- 
night, my  dear  child!'  I  could  have  strangled  her!  I 
said  it  was  the  key  of  the  door  that  had  caught  it.  I 
looked  at  you  out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye;  you  were 
pulling  your  moustache  and  seemed  greatly  annoyed — 
you  are  keeping  all  the  truffles  for  yourself;  that  is 
kind — not  that  one;  I  want  the  big  black  one  there  in 
the  corner — it  was  very  wrong  all  the  same,  for — oh! 
not  quite  full — I  do  not  want  to  be  tipsy — for,  after  all, 
if  we  had  not  been  married — and  that  might  have  hap- 
pened, for  you  know  they  say  that  marriages  only 
depend  on  a  thread.  Well,  if  the  thread  had  not  been 
strong  enough,  I  should  have  remained  a  maid  with  a 
kiss  on  my  shoulder,  and  a  nice  thing  that  would  have 
been." 

"Bah!  it  does  not  stain." 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  it  does,  I  beg  your  pardon.  It 
stains  so  much  that  there  are  husbands,  I  believe,  who 
even  shed  their  blood  to  wash  out  such  little  stains." 

"  But  I  was  joking,  dear.  Hang  it ! — don't  you  think 
—yes,  certainly,  hang  it!" 

"Ah!  that's  right,  I  like  to  see  you  angry.  You  are 
a  trifle  jealous,  dear — oh!  that  is  too  bad;  I  asked 
you  for  the  big  black  one,  and  you  have  gone  and  eaten 
it." 

"I  am  sorry,  dear;  I  quite  forgot  about  it." 
ii  [161] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"It  was  the  same  at  the  Town  Hall,  where  I  was 
obliged  to  jog  your  elbow  to  make  you  answer  'Yes' 
to  the  Mayor's  kind  words." 

"Kind!" 

"Yes,  kind.  I  thought  him  charming.  No  one 
could  have  been  more  graceful  than  he  was  in  address- 
ing me.  '  Mademoiselle,  will  you  consent  to  accept  for 
your  husband  that  great,  ugly  fellow  standing  beside 
you?"  (Laughing,  with  her  mouth  full.)  "I  wanted 
to  say  to  him,  'Let  us  come  to  an  understanding,  Mr. 
Mayor;  there  is  something  to  be  said  on  either  side.' 
I  am  choking!" — she  bursts  out  laughing — "I  was 
wrong  not  to  impose  restrictions.  Your  health,  dear! 
I  am  teasing  you;  it  is  very  stupid.  I  said  'Yes'  with 
all  my  heart,  I  can  assure  you,  dear,  and  I  thought  the 
word  too  weak  a  one.  When  I  think  that  all  women, 
even  the  worst,  say  that  word,  I  feel  ashamed  not  to 
have  found  another."  Holding  out  her  glass:  "To  our 
golden  wedding — will  you  touch  glasses?" 

"And  to  his  baptism,  little  mamma." 

In  a  low  voice:  "Tell  me — are  you  sorry  you  mar- 
ried me?" 

Laughing,  "Yes."  Kissing  her  on  the  shoulder,  "I 
think  I  have  found  the  stain  again;  it  was  just  there." 

"It  is  two  in  the  morning,  the  fire  is  out,  and  I  am  a 
little — you  won't  laugh  now?  Well,  I  am  a  little 
dizzy." 

"A  capital  pie,  eh?" 

"A  capital  pie!  We  shall  have  a  cup  of  tea  for 
breakfast  to-morrow,  shall  we  not?" 

[162] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FROM  ONE  THING  TO  ANOTHER 

SCENE. — The  country  in  autumn — The  wind  is  blowing 
without — MADAME,  seated  by  the  fireside  in  a  large 
armchair,  is  engaged  in  needlework — MONSIEUR, 
seated  in  front  oj  her,  is  watching  the  flames  of  the 
fire — A  long  silence. 

ONSIEUR—Wi\\   you   pass   me   the 
poker,  my  dear  ? 

Madame  (humming  to  herself) — 
"And  yet  despite  so  many  fears." 
(Spoken.)  Here  is  the  poker.  (Hum- 
ming.) "Despite  the  painful— 

Monsieur — That  is  by  Mehul,  is  it 
not,  my  dear?  Ah!  that  is  music— 
I  saw  Delaunay  Riquier  in  Joseph.  (He  hums  as  he 
makes  up  the  fire.)  "Holy  pains."  (Spoken.)  One 
wonders  why  it  does  not  burn,  and,  by  Jove!  it  turns 
out  to  be  green  wood.  Only  he  was  a  little  too  robust 
— Riquier.  A  charming  voice,  but  he  is  too  stout. 

Madame  (holding  her  needlework  at  a  distance,  the 
better  to  judge  of  the  effect) — Tell  me,  George,  would 
you  have  this  square  red  or  black?    You  see,  the 
square  near  the  point.    Tell  me  frankly. 
Monsieur  (singing) — "If  you  can  repent."     (Spoken 
[163] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

without  turning  his  head.)  Red,  my  dear;  red.  I 
should  not  hesitate;  I  hate  black. 

Madame — Yes,  but  if  I  make  that  red  it  will  lead  me 
to (She  reflects.) 

Monsieur — Well,  my  dear,  if  it  leads  you  away,  you 
must  hold  fast  to  something  to  save  yourself. 

Madame — Come,  George,  I  am  speaking  seriously. 
You  know  that  if  this  little  square  is  red,  the  point  can 
not  remain  violet,  and  I  would  not  change  that  for  any- 
thing. 

Monsieur  (slowly  and  seriously) — My  dear,  will  you 
follow  the  advice  of  an  irreproachable  individual,  to 
whose  existence  you  have  linked  your  fate?  Well, 
make  that  square  pea-green,  and  so  no  more  about  it. 
Just  look  whether  a  coal  fire  ever  looked  like  that. 

Madame — I  should  only  be  too  well  pleased  to  use  up 
my  pea-green  wool;  I  have  a  quantity  of  it. 

Monsieur — Then  where  lies  the  difficulty  ? 

Madame — The  difficulty  is  that  pea-green  is  not— 
sufficiently  religious. 

Monsieur — Hum!  (Humming.)  Holy  pains!  (Spo- 
ken.) Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  pass  the  bellows  ? 

Would  it  be  indiscreet  to  ask  why  the  poor  pea-green, 
which  does  not  look  very  guilty,  has  such  an  evil  repu- 
tation? You  are  going  in  for  religious  needlework, 
then,  my  dear? 

Madame — Oh,  George!  I  beg  of  you  to  spare  me  your 
fun.  I  have  been  familiar  with  it  for  a  long  time,  you 
know,  and  it  is  horribly  disagreeable  to  me.  I  am 
simply  making  a  little  mat  for  the  confessional-box  of 
the  vicar.  There !  are  you  satisfied  ?  You  know  what 

[164] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

it  is  for,  and  you  must  understand  that  under  the 
present  circumstances  pea-green  would  be  altogether 
out  of  place. 

Monsieur — Not  the  least  in  the  world.  I  can  swear 
to  you  that  I  could  just  as  well  confess  with  pea-green 
under  my  feet.  It  is  true  that  I  am  naturally  of  a  reso- 
lute disposition.  Use  up  your  wool;  I  can  assure  you 
that  the  vicar  will  accept  it  all  the  same.  He  does  not 
know  how  to  refuse,  (He  plies  the  bellows  briskly.) 

Madame — You  are  pleased,  are  you  not  ? 

Monsieur — Pleased  at  what,  dear? 

Madame — Pleased  at  having  vented  your  sarcasm,  at 
having  passed  a  jest  on  one  who  is  absent.  Well,  I 
tell  you  that  you  are  a  bad  man,  seeing  that  you  seek 
to  shake  the  faith  of  those  about  you.  My  beliefs  had 
need  be  very  fervent,  principles  strong,  and  have  real 
virtue,  to  resist  these  incessant  attacks.  Well,  why  are 
you  looking  at  me  like  that  ? 

Monsieur — I  want  to  be  converted,  my  little  apostle. 
You  are  so  pretty  when  you  speak  out;  your. eyes  glis- 
ten, your  voice  rings,  your  gestures — I  am  sure  that 
you  could  speak  like  that  for  a  long  time,  eh?  (He 
kisses  her  hand,  and  takes  two  of  her  curls  and  ties  them 
under  her  chin.)  You  are  looking  pretty,  my  pet. 

Madame — Oh!  you  think  you  have  reduced  me  to 
silence  because  you  have  interrupted  me.  Ah!  there, 
you  have  tangled  my  hair.  How  provoking  you  are! 
It  will  take  me  an  hour  to  put  it  right.  You  are  not 
satisfied  with  being  a  prodigy  of  impiety,  but  you  must 
also  tangle  my  hair.  Come,  hold  out  your  hands  and 
take  this  skein  of  wool. 

[165] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Monsieur  (sitting  down  on  a  stool,  which  he  draws  as 
closely  as  possible  to  Madame,  and  holding  up  his 
hands] — My  little  Saint  John ! 

Madame — Not  so  close,  George;  not  so  close.  (She 
smiles  despite  herself.)  How  silly  you  are!  Please  be 
careful;  you  will  break  my  wool. 

Monsieur — Your  religious  wool. 

Madame — Yes,  my  religious  wool.  (She  gives  him 
a  little  pat  on  the  cheek.)  Why  do  you  part  your  hair 
so  much  on  one  side,  George?  It  would  suit  you 
much  better  hi  the  middle,  here.  Yes,  you  may  kiss 
me,  but  gently. 

Monsieur — Can  you  guess  what  I  am  thinking  of  ? 

Madame — How  do  you  imagine  I  could  guess  that? 

Monsieur — Well,  I  am  thinking  of  the  barometer 
which  is  falling  and  of  the  thermometer  which  is  falling 
too. 

Madame — You  see,  cold  weather  is  coming  on  and 
my  mat  will  never  be  finished.  Come,  let  us  make 
haste. 

Monsieur — I  was  thinking  of  the  thermometer  which 
is  falling  and  of  my  room  which  faces  due  north. 

Madame — Did  you  not  choose  it  yourself?  My 
wool!  Good  gracious!  my  wool!  Oh!  the  wicked 
wretch! 

Monsieur — In  summer  my  room  with  the  northern 
aspect  is,  no  doubt,  very  pleasant;  but  when  autumn 
comes,  when  the  wind  creeps  in,  when  the  rain  trickles 
down  the  window-panes,  when  the  fields,  the  country, 
seem  hidden  under  a  huge  veil  of  sadness,  when  the 
spoils  of  our  woodlands  strew  the  earth,  when  the 

[166] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

groves  have  lost  their  mystery  and  the  nightingale  her 
voice — oh!  then  the  room  with  the  northern  aspect  has 
a  very  northern  aspect,  and— 

Madame  (continuing  to  wind  her  wool) — What  non- 
sense you  are  talking! 

Monsieur — I  protest  against  autumns,  that  is  all. 
God's  sun  is  hidden  and  I  seek  another.  Is  not  that 
natural,  my  little  fair-haired  saint,  my  little  mystic 
lamb,  my  little  blessed  palm-branch  ?  This  new  sun  I 
find  in  you,  pet — in  your  look,  in  the  sweet  odor  of 
your  person,  in  the  rustling  of  your  skirt,  in  the  down 
on  your  neck  which  one  notices  by  the  lamp-light  when 
you  bend  over  the  vicar's  mat,  in  your  nostril  which 
expands  when  my  lips  approach  yours 

Madame — Will  you  be  quiet,  George  ?  It  is  Friday, 
and  Ember  week. 

Monsieur — And  your  dispensation  ?  (He  kisses  her.) 
Don't  you  see  that  your  hand  shakes,  that  you  blush, 
that  your  heart  is  beating  ? 

Madame — George,  will  you  have  done,  sir?  (She 
pulls  away  her  hand,  throws  herself  back  in  the  chair, 
and  avoids  her  husband's  glance.) 

Monsieur — Your  poor  little  heart  beats,  and  it  is 
right,  dear;  it  knows  that  autumn  is  the  time  for  con- 
fidential chats  and  evening  caresses,  the  time  for  kisses. 
And  you  know  it  too,  for  you  defend  yourself  poorly, 
and  I  defy  you  to  look  me  in  the  face.  Come!  look 
me  in  the  face. 

Madame  (she  suddenly  leans  toward  her  husband,  the 
ball  of  wool  rolling  into  the  fireplace,  the  pious  task  jail- 
ing to  the  ground.  She  takes  his  head  between  her 

[167] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

hands) — Oh,  what  a  dear,  charming   husband   you 
would  be  if  you  had 

Monsieur — If  I  had  what  ?    Tell  me  quickly. 

Madame — If  you  had  a  little  religion.  I  should  only 
ask  for  such  a  little  at  the  beginning.  It  is  not  very 
difficult,  I  can  assure  you.  While,  now,  you  are  really 
too 

Monsieur — Pea-green,  eh? 

Madame — Yes,  pea-green,  you  great  goose.  (She 
laughs  frankly.) 

Monsieur  (lifting  his  hands  in  the  air) — Sound 
trumpets!  Madame  has  laughed;  Madame  is  dis- 
armed. Well,  my  snow-white  lamb,  I  am  going  to  fin- 
ish my  story;  listen  properly,  there,  like  that — your 
hands  here,  my  head  so.  Hush!  don't  laugh.  I  am 
speaking  seriously.  As  I  was  saying  to  you,  the  north 
room  is  large  but  cold,  poetic  but  gloomy,  and  I  will 
add  that  two  are  not  too  many  in  this  wintry  season  to 
contend  against  the  rigors  of  the  night.  I  will  further 
remark  that  if  the  sacred  ties  of  marriage  have  a  pro- 
foundly social  significance,  it  is — do  not  interrupt  me 
— at  that  hour  of  one's  existence  when  one  shivers  on 
one's  solitary  couch. 

Madame — You  can  not  be  serious. 

Monsieur — Well,  seriously,  I  should  like  the  vicar's 
mat  piously  spread  upon  your  bed,  to  keep  us  both 
warm  together,  this  very  evening.  I  wish  to  return  as 
speedily  as  possible  to  the  intimacy  of  conjugal  life. 
Do  you  hear  how  the  wind  blows  and  whistles  through 
the  doors  ?  The  fire  splutters,  and  your  feet  are  frozen. 
(He  takes  her  foot  in  his  hands.) 

[168] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Madame — But  you  are  taking  off  my  slipper,  George. 

Monsieur — Do  you  think,  my  white  lamb,  that  I  am 
going  to  leave  your  poor  little  foot  in  that  state?  Let 
it  stay  in  my  hand  to  be  warmed.  Nothing  is  so  cold 
as  silk.  What!  open-work  stockings?  My  dear,  you 
are  rather  dainty  about  your  foot-gear  for  a  Friday. 
Do  you  know,  pet,  you  can  not  imagine  how  gay  I 
wake  up  when  the  morning  sun  shines  into  my  room. 
You  shall  see.  I  am  no  longer  a  man;  I  am  a  chaf- 
finch; all  the  joys  of  spring  recur  to  me.  I  laugh,  I 
sing,  I  speechify,  I  tell  tales  to  make  one  die  of  laugh- 
ter. Sometimes  I  even  dance. 

Madame — Come  now!  I  who  in  the  morning  like 
neither  noise  nor  broad  daylight — how  little  all  that 
suits! 

Monsieur  (suddenly  changing  his  tone) — Did  I  say 
that  I  liked  all  that?  The  morning  sun?  Never  in 
autumn,  my  sweet  dove,  never.  I  awake,  on  the  con- 
trary full  of  languor  and  poesy;  I  was  like  that  in  my 
very  cradle.  We  will  prolong  the  night,  and  behind 
the  drawn  curtain,  behind  the  closed  shutter,  we  will 
remain  asleep  without  sleeping.  Buried  in  silence  and 
shadow,  delightfully  stretched  beneath  your  warm 
eider-down  coverlets,  we  will  slowly  enjoy  the  happi- 
ness of  being  together,  and  we  will  wish  one  another 
good-morning  only  on  the  stroke  of  noon.  You  do  not 
like  noise,  dear.  I  will  not  say  a  word.  Not  a  mur- 
mur to  disturb  your  unfinished  dream  and  warn  you 
that  you  are  no  longer  sleeping;  not  a  breath  to  recall 
you  to  reality;  not  a  movement  to  rustle  the  coverings. 
I  will  be  silent  as  a  shade,  motionless  as  a  statue;  and 

[169] 


if  I  kiss  you — for,  after  all,  I  have  my  weaknesses — it 
will  be  done  with  a  thousand  precautions,  my  lips  will 
scarcely  brush  your  sleeping  shoulder;  and  if  you 
quiver  with  pleasure  as  you  stretch  out  your  arms,  if 
your  eye  half  uncloses  at  the  murmur  of  my  kiss,  if 
your  lips  smile  at  me,  if  I  kiss  you,  it  would  be  because 
you  would  like  me  to,  and  I  shall  have  nothing  to  re- 
proach myself  with. 

Madame  (her  eyes  half  closed,  leaning  back  in  her 
armchair,  her  head  bent  with  emotion,  she  places  her 
hands  before  his  mouth.  In  a  low  voice) — Hush,  hush! 
Don't  say  that,  dear;  not  another  word !  If  you  knew 
how  wrong  it  was! 

Monsieur — Wrong!  What  is  there  that  is  wrong? 
Is  your  heart  of  marble  or  adamant,  that  you  do  not 
see  that  I  love  you,  you  naughty  child?  That  I  hold 
out  my  arms  to  you,  that  I  long  to  clasp  you  to  my 
heart,  and  to  fall  asleep  in  your  hair?  What  is  there 
more  sacred  in  the  world  than  to  love  one's  wife  or  love 
one's  husband  ?  (Midnight  strikes.) 

Madame  (she  suddenly  changes  her  expression  at  the 
sound,  throws  her  arms  round  her  husband,  and  hur- 
riedly kisses  him  thrice) — You  thought  I  did  not  love 
you,  eh,  dear?  Oh,  yes!  I  love  you.  Great  baby! 
not  to  see  that  I  was  waiting  the  time. 

Monsieur — What  time,  dear? 

Madame — The  time.  It  has  struck  twelve,  see. 
(She  blushes  crimson.)  Friday  is  over.  (She  holds  out 
her  hand  for  him  to  kiss.) 

Monsieur — Are  you  sure  the  clock  is  not  five  minutes 
fast,  love? 

[170] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  LITTLE  CHAT 
MADAME  F — MADAME  H 

(These  ladies  are  seated  at  needlework  as  they  talk.) 

5) 

\ADAME  F — For  myself,  you  know, 
my  dear,  I  fulfil  my  duties  tolerably, 
still  I  am  not  what  would  be  called 
a  devotee.  By  no  means.  Pass  me 
your  scissors.  Thanks. 

Madame  H — You  are  quite  wel- 
come, dear.  What  a  time  those  little 
squares  of  lace  must  take.  I  am  like 
yourself  in  respect  of  religion;  in  the  first  place,  I  think 
that  nothing  should  be  overdone.  Have  you  ever — I 
have  never  spoken  to  any  one  on  the  subject,  but  I  see 

your  ideas  are  so  in  accordance  with  my  own  that 

Madame  F — Come,  speak  out,  dear;  you  trust  me  a 
little,  I  hope. 

Madame  H — Well,  then,  have  you — tell  me  truly — 
ever  had  any  doubts? 

Madame  F  (after  reflecting  jor  a  moment) — Doubts! 
No.    And  you? 

Madame  H — I  have  had  doubts,  which  has  been  a 
real  grief  to  me.    Heavens!  how  I  have  wept. 
Madame  F — I  should  think  so,  my  poor  dear.    For 
[171] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

my  own  part,  my  faith  is  very  strong.  These  doubts 
must  have  made  you  very  unhappy. 

Madame  H — Terribly  so.  You  know,  it  seems  as  if 
everything  failed  you;  there  is  a  vacancy  all  about  you 
— I  have  never  spoken  about  it  to  my  husband,  of 
course — Leon  is  a  jewel  of  a  man,  but  he  will  not  listen 
to  anything  of  that  kind.  I  can  still  see  him,  the  day 
after  our  marriage;  I  was  smoothing  my  hair — broad 
bands  were  then  worn,  you  know. 

Madame  F — Yes,  yes;  they  were  charming.  You 
will  see  that  we  shall  go  back  to  them. 

Madame  H — I  should  not  be  surprised;  fashion  is  a 
wheel  that  turns.  Leon,  then,  said  to  me  the  day  after 
our  wedding:  "My  dear  child,  I  shall  not  hinder  you 
going  to  church,  but  I  beg  you,  for  mercy's  sake,  never 
to  say  a  word  to  me  about  it." 

Madame  F — Really,  Monsieur  H.  said  tLat  to  you? 

Madame  H — Upon  my  honor.  Oh!  my  husband  is 
all  that  is  most — or,  if  you  prefer  it,  all  that  is  least 

Madame  F — Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  That  is  a 
grief,  you  know.  Mine  is  only  indifferent.  From 
time  to  time  he  says  some  disagreeable  things  to  me 
on  the  question,  but  I  am  sure  he  could  be  very  easily 
brought  back  to  the  right.  At  the  first  illness  he  has, 
you  shall  see.  When  he  has  only  a  cold  in  the  head,  I 
notice  the  change.  You  have  not  seen  my  thimble? 

Madame  H — Here  it  is.  Do  not  be  too  sure  of  that, 
dear;  men  are  not  to  be  brought  back  by  going  "chk, 
chk"  to  them,  like  little  chickens.  And  then,  though  I 
certainly  greatly  admire  the  men  who  observe  religious 
practices,  you  know  me  well  enough  not  to  doubt  that 

[172] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

— I  think,  as  I  told  you,  that  nothing  should  be  exag- 
gerated. And  yourself,  pet,  should  you  like  to  see  your 
husband  walking  before  the  banner  with  a  great  wax 
taper  in  his  right  hand  and  a  bouquet  of  flowers  in  his 
left? 

Madame  F — Oh!  no,  indeed.  Why  not  ask  me  at 
once  whether  I  should  like  to  see  Leon  in  a  black  silk 
skull  cap,  with  cotton  in  his  ears  and  a  holy  water 
sprinkler  in  his  hand?  One  has  no  need  to  go  whin- 
ing about  a  church  with  one's  nose  buried  in  a  book 
to  be  a  pious  person;  there  is  a  more  elevated  form  of 
religion,  which  is  that  of — of  refined  people,  you  know. 

Madame  H — Ah!  when  you  speak  like  that,  I  am  of 
your  opinion.  I  think,  for  instance,  that  there  is  noth- 
ing looks  finer  than  a  man  while  the  host  is  being  ele- 
vated. Arms  crossed,  no  book,  head  slightly  bowed, 
grave  look,  frock  coat  buttoned  up.  Have  you  seen 
Monsieur  de  P.  at  mass?  How  well  he  looks! 

Madame  F — He  is  such  a  fine  man,  and,  then,  he 
dresses  so  well.  Have  you  seen  him  on  horseback? 
Ah!  so  you  have  doubts;  but  tell  me  what  they  are, 
seeing  we  are  indulging  in  confidences. 

Madame  H — I  can  hardly  tell  you.  Doubts,  in 
short;  about  hell,  for  instance,  I  have  had  horrible 
doubts.  Oh!  but  do  not  let  us  speak  about  that;  I 
believe  it  is  wrong  even  to  think  of  it. 

Madame  F — I  have  very  broad  views  on  that  point; 
I  never  think  about  it.  Besides,  my  late  confessor 
helped  me.  "Do  not  seek  too  much,"  he  always  said 
to  me,  "do  not  try  to  understand  that  which  is  un- 
fathomable." You  did  not  know  Father  Gideon? 

[i73] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

He  was  a  jewel  of  a  confessor;  I  was  extremely  pleased 
with  him.  Not  too  tedious,  always  discreet,  and,  above 
all,  well-bred.  He  turned  monk  from  a  romantic 
cause — a  penitent  was  madly  in  love  with  him. 

Madame  H — Impossible ! 

Madame  F — Yes,  really.  What!  did  you  not  know 
about  it?  The  success  of  the  monastery  was  due  to 
that  accident.  Before  the  coming  of  Father  Gideon  it 
vegetated,  but  on  his  coming  the  ladies  soon  flocked 
there  in  crowds.  They  organized  a  little  guild,  entitled 
"The  Ladies  of  the  Agony."  They  prayed  for  the 
Chinese  who  had  died  without  confession,  and  wore 
little  death's  heads  in  aluminum  as  sleeve-links.  It 
became  very  fashionable,  as  you  are  aware,  and  the 
good  fathers  organized,  in  turn,  a  registry  for  men  ser- 
vants; and  the  result  is  that,  from  one  thing  leading  to 
another,  the  community  has  become  extremely  wealthy. 
I  have  even  heard  that  one  of  the  most  important  rail- 
way stations  in  Paris  is  shortly  to  be  moved,  so  that 
the  size  of  their  garden  can  be  increased,  which  is  rather 
restricted  at  present. 

Madame  H — As  to  that,  it  is  natural  enough  that 
men  should  want  a  place  to  walk  in  at  home;  but 
what  I  do  not  understand  is  that  a  woman,  however 
pious  she  may  be,  should  fall  in  love  with  a  priest.  It 
is  all  very  well,  but  that  is  no  longer  piety;  it  is — fanat- 
icism. I  venerate  priests,  I  can  say  so  truly,  but  after 
all  I  can  not  imagine  myself — you  will  laugh  at  me — 
ha,  ha,  ha! 

Madame  F— Not  at  all.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  what  a  child 
you  are! 

[i74] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Madame  H  (working  with  great  briskness) — Well,  I 
can  not  imagine  that  they  are  men — like  the  others. 

Madame  F  (resuming  work  with  equal  ardor) — And 
yet,  my  dear,  people  say  they  are. 

Madame  H — There  are  so  many  false  reports  set 
afloat.  (A  long  silence.) 

Madame  F  (in  a  discreet  tone  of  voice) — After  all, 
there  are  priests  who  have  beards — the  Capuchins,  for 
instance. 

Madame  H — Madame  de  V.  has  a  beard  right  up  to 
her  eyes,  so  that  counts  for  nothing,  dear. 

Madame  F — That  counts  for  nothing.  I  do  not 
think  so.  In  the  first  place,  Madame  de  V.'s  beard  is 
not  a  perennial  beard ;  her  niece  told  me  that  she  sheds 
her  moustaches  every  autumn.  What  can  a  beard  be 
that  can  not  stand  the  winter  ?  A  mere  trifle. 

Madame  H — A  mere  trifle  that  is  horribly  ugly,  my 
dear. 

Madame  F — Oh!  if  Madame  de  V.  had  only  mous- 
taches to  frighten  away  people,  one  might  still  look 
upon  her  without  sorrow,  but 

Madame  H — I  grant  all  that.  Let  us  allow  that  the 
Countess's  moustache  and  imperial  are  a  nameless 
species  of  growth.  I  do  not  attach  much  importance 
to  the  point,  you  understand.  She  has  a  chin  of  heart- 
breaking fertility,  that  is  all. 

Madame  F — To  return  to  what  we  were  saying,  how 
is  it  that  the  men  who  are  strongest,  most  courageous, 
most  manly — soldiers,  in  fact — are  precisely  those  who 
have  most  beard? 

Madame  H — That  is  nonsense,  for  then  the  pioneers 
[i75] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

would  be  braver  than  the  Generals;  and,  in  any  case, 
there  is  not  in  France,  I  am  sure,  a  General  with  as 
much  beard  as  a  Capuchin.  You  have  never  looked 
at  a  Capuchin  then? 

Madame  F — Oh,  yes!  I  have  looked  at  one  quite 
close.  It  is  a  rather  funny  story.  Fancy  Clementine's 
cook  having  a  brother  a  Capuchin — an  ex-jeweller,  a 
very  decent  man.  In  consequence  of  misfortunes  in 
business — it  was  in  1848,  business  was  at  a  standstill — 
in  short,  he  lost  his  senses — no,  he  did  not  lose  his 
senses,  but  he  threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  Heaven. 

Madame  H — Oh!  I  never  knew  that!  When? 
Clementine 

Madame  F — I  was  like  you,  I  would  not  believe  it, 
but  one  day  Clementine  said  to  me:  "Since  you  will 
not  believe  in  my  Capuchin,  come  and  see  me  to-mor- 
row about  three  o'clock;  he  will  be  paying  a  visit  to 
his  sister.  Don't  have  lunch  first;  we  will  lunch  to- 
gether." Very  good.  I  went  the  next  day  with 
Louise,  who  absolutely  insisted  upon  accompanying 
me,  and  I  found  at  Clementine's  five  or  six  ladies  in- 
stalled in  the  drawing-room  and  laughing  like  madcaps. 
They  had  all  come  to  see  the  Capuchin.  "Well,"  said 
I,  as  I  went  in,  when  they  all  began  to  make  signs  to 
me  and  whisper,  "Hush,  hush!"  He  was  in  the 
kitchen. 

Madame  H — And  what  was  he  like  ? 

Madame  F — Oh!  very  nice,  except  his  feet;  you 
know  how  it  always  gives  one  a  chill  to  look  at  their 
feet ;  but,  in  short,  he  was  very  amiable.  He  was  sent 
for  into  the  drawing-room,  but  he  would  not  take  any- 

[176] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

thing  except  a  little  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  water,  which 
took  away  our  appetites.  He  was  very  lively;  told  us 
that  we  were  coquettes  with  our  little  bonnets  and  our 
full  skirts.  He  was  very  funny,  always  a  little  bit  of 
the  jeweller  at  the  bottom,  but  with  plenty  of  good 
nature  and  frankness.  He  imitated  the  buzzing  of  a 
fly  for  us;  it  was  wonderful.  He  also  wanted  to  show 
us  a  little  conjuring  trick,  but  he  needed  two  corks  for 
it,  and  unfortunately  his  sister  could  only  find  one. 

Madame  H — No  matter,  I  can  not  understand  Cle- 
mentine engaging  a  servant  like  that. 

Madame  F — Why  ?    The  brother  is  a  guarantee. 

Madame  H — Of  morality,  I  don't  say  no;  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  a  girl  like  that  can  not  be  very  dis- 
creet in  her  ways. 

Madame  F — How  do  you  make  that  out  ? 

Madame  H — I  don't  know,  I  can  not  reason  the 
matter  out,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  it  must  be  so,  that 
is  all,  .  .  .  besides,  I  should  not  like  to  see  a  monk  in 
my  kitchen,  close  to  the  soup.  Oh,  mercy!  no! 

Madame  F — What  a  child  you  are ! 

Madame  H — That  has  nothing  to  do  with  religious 
feelings,  my  dear;  I  do  not  attack  any  dogma.  Ah! 
if  I  were  to  say,  for  instance — come  now,  if  I  were  to 
say,  what  now  ? 

Madame  F — In  point  of  fact,  what  really  is  dogma  ? 

Madame  H — Well,  it  is  what  can  not  be  attacked. 
Thus,  for  instance,  a  thing  that  is  evident,  you  under- 
stand me,  is  unassailable,  ...  or  else  it  should  be 
assailed,  .  .  in  short,  it  can  not  be  attacked.  That  is 
why  it  is  monstrous  to  allow  the  Jewish  religion  and 
12  [177] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

the  Protestant  religion  in  France,  because  these  religions 
can  be  assailed,  for  they  have  no  dogma.  I  give  you 
this  briefly,  but  in  your  prayer-book  you  will  find  the 
list  of  dogmas.  I  am  a  rod  of  iron  as  regards  dogmas. 
My  husband,  who,  as  I  said,  has  succeeded  in  inspiring 
me  with  doubts  on  many  matters — without  imagining 
it,  for  he  has  never  required  anything  of  me;  I  must 
do  him  that  justice — but  who,  at  any  rate,  has  suc- 
ceeded in  making  me  neglect  many  things  belonging 
to  religion,  such  as  fasting,  vespers,  sermons,  .  .  .  con- 
fession. 

Madame  F — Confession!  Oh!  my  dear,  I  should 
never  have  believed  that. 

Madame  H — It  is  in  confidence,  dear  pet,  that  I  tell 
you  this.  You  will  swear  never  to  speak  of  it  ? 

Madame  F — Confession!  Oh!  yes,  I  swear  it.  Come 
here,  and  let  me  kiss  you. 

Madame  H — You  pity  me,  do  you  not  ? 

Madame  F — I  can  not  pity  you  too  much,  for  I  am 
absolutely  in  the  same  position. 

Madame  H — You,  too!  Good  heavens!  how  I  love 
you.  What  can  one  do,  eh?  Must  one  not  introduce 
some  plan  of  conciliation  into  the  household,  sacrifice 
one's  belief  a  little  to  that  of  one's  husband  ? 

Madame  F — No  doubt.  For  instance,  how  would 
you  have  me  go  to  high  mass,  which  is  celebrated  at 
my  parish  church  at  eleven  o'clock  exactly?  That  is 
just  our  breakfast  time.  Can  I  let  my  husband  break- 
fast alone  ?  He  would  never  hinder  me  from  going  to 
high  mass,  he  has  said  so  a  thousand  times,  only  he  has 
always  added,  "When  you  want  to  go  to  mass  during 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

breakfast  time,  I  only  ask  one  thing — it  is  to  give  me 
notice  the  day  before,  so  that  I  may  invite  some  friends 
to  keep  me  company." 

Madame  H — But  only  fancy,  pet,  our  two  husbands 
could  not  be  more  alike  if  they  were  brothers.  Le'on 
has  always  said,  "My  dear  little  chicken ' 

Madame  F — Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Madame  H — Yes,  that  is  his  name  for  me;  you  know 
how  lively  he  is.  He  has  always  said  to  me,  then, 
"My  dear  little  chicken,  I  am  not  a  man  to  do  violence 
to  your  opinions,  but  in  return  give  way  to  me  as  re- 
gards some  of  your  pious  practices."  I  only  give  you 
the  mere  gist  of  it;  it  was  said  with  a  thousand  deli- 
cacies, which  I  suppress.  And  I  have  agreed  by  de- 
grees, ...  so  that,  while  only  paying  very  little  atten- 
tion to  the  outward  observances  of  religion,  I  have 
remained,  as  I  told  you,  a  bar  of  iron  as  regards  dog- 
mas. Oh!  as  to  that,  I  would  not  give  way  an  inch,  a 
hair-breadth,  and  Le'on  is  the  first  to  tell  me  that  I  am 
right.  After  all,  dogma  is  everything;  practice,  well, 
what  would  you?  If  I  could  bring  Le'on  round,  it 
would  be  quite  another  thing.  How  glad  I  am  to  have 
spoken  to  you  about  all  this. 

Madame  F — Have  we  not  been  chattering?  But  it 
is  half-past  five,  and  I  must  go  and  take  my  cinchona 
bark.  Thirty  minutes  before  meals,  it  is  a  sacred  duty. 
Will  you  come,  pet? 

Madame  H — Stop  a  moment,  I  have  lost  my  thimble 
again  and  must  find  it. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  HOT-WATER  BOTTLE 

^HEN  midnight  strikes,  when  the  embers 
die  away  into  ashes,  when  the  lamp 
burns  more  feebly  and  your  eyes 
close  in  spite  of  yourself,  the  best 
thing  to  do,  dear  Madame,  is  to  go 
to  bed. 

Get  up  from  your  armchair,  take 
off  your  bracelets,  light  your  rose- 
colored  taper,  and  proceed  slowly,  to  the  soft  accom- 
paniment of  your  trailing  skirt,  rustling  across  the  car- 
pet, to  your  dressing-room,  that  perfumed  sanctuary 
in  which  your  beauty,  knowing  itself  to  be  alone,  raises 
its  veils,  indulges  in  self-examination,  revels  in  itself 
and  reckons  up  its  treasures  as  a  miser  does  his  wealth. 
Before  the  muslin-framed  mirror,  which  reveals  all 
that  it  sees  so  well,  you  pause  carelessly  and  with  a 
smile  give  one  long  satisfied  look,  then  with  two  fingers 
you  withdraw  the  pin  that  kept  up  your  hair,  and  its 
long,  fair  tresses  unroll  and  fall  in  waves,  veiling  your 
bare  shoulders.  With  a  coquettish  hand,  the  little  fin- 
ger of  which  is  turned  up,  you  caress,  as  you  gather 
them  together,  the  golden  flood  of  your  abundant  locks, 
while  with  the  other  you  pass  through  them  the  tortoise- 
shell  comb  that  buries  itself  in  the  depths  of  this  fair 
forest  and  bends  with  the  effort. 

[180] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Your  tresses  are  so  abundant  that  your  little  hand 
can  scarcely  grasp  them.  They  are  so  long  that  your 
outstretched  arm  scarcely  reaches  their  extremity. 
Hence  it  is  not  without  difficulty  that  you  manage  to 
twist  them  up  and  imprison  them  in  your  embroidered 
night-cap. 

This  first  duty  accomplished,  you  turn  the  silver  tap, 
and  the  pure  and  limpid  water  pours  into  a  large  bowl 
of  enamelled  porcelain.  You  throw  in  a  few  drops  of 
that  fluid  which  perfumes  and  softens  the  skin,  and 
like  a  nymph  in  the  depths  of  a  quiet  wood  preparing 
for  the  toilet,  you  remove  the  drapery  that  might  en- 
cumber you. 

But  what,  Madame,  you  frown?  Have  I  said  too 
much  or  not  enough?  Is  it  not  well  known  that  you 
love  cold  water;  and  do  you  think  it  is  not  guessed  that 
at  the  contact  of  the  dripping  sponge  you  quiver  from 
head  to  foot? 

But  what  matters  it,  your  toilette  for  the  night  is 
completed,  you  are  fresh,  restored,  and  white  as  a  nun 
in  your  embroidered  dressing-gown,  you  dart  your  bare 
feet  into  satin  slippers  and  reenter  your  bedroom, 
shivering  slightly.  To  see  you  walking  thus  with  hur- 
ried steps,  wrapped  tightly  in  your  dressing-gown,  and 
with  your  pretty  head  hidden  in  its  nightcap,  you 
might  be  taken  for  a  little  girl  leaving  the  confessional 
after  confessing  some  terrible  sin. 

Gaining  the  bedside,  Madame  lays  aside  her  slip- 
pers, and  lightly  and  without  effort,  bounds  into  the 
depths  of  the  alcove. 

However,  Monsieur,  who  was  already  asleep  with  his 
[181] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

nose  on  the  Moniteur,  suddenly  wakes  up  at  the  move- 
ment imparted  to  the  bed. 

"I  thought  that  you  were  in  bed  already,  dear,"  he 
murmurs,  falling  off  to  sleep  again.  "  Good-night." 

"If  I  had  been  in  bed  you  would  have  noticed  it." 
Madame  stretches  out  her  feet  and  moves  them  about; 
she  seems  to  be  in  quest  of  something.  "I  am  not  in 
such  a  hurry  to  go  to  sleep  as  you  are,  thank  good- 
ness." 

Monsieur,  suddenly  and  evidently  annoyed,  says: 
"But  what  is  the  matter,  my  dear?  You  fidget  and 
fidget — I  want  to  sleep."  He  turns  over  as  he  speaks. 

"I  fidget!  I  am  simply  feeling  for  my  hot- water 
bottle;  you  are  irritating." 

"Your  hot-water  bottle?"  is  Monsieur's  reply,  with 
a  grunt. 

"Certainly,  my  hot- water  bottle,  my  feet  are  frozen." 
She  goes  on  feeling  for  it.  "You  are  really  very  amia- 
ble this  evening;  you  began  by  dozing  over  the  Revue 
des  Deux  Mondes,  and  I  find  you  snoring  over  the 
Moniteur.  In  your  place  I  should  vary  my  literature. 
I  am  sure  you  have  taken  my  hot- water  bottle." 

"I  have  been  doing  wrong.  I  will  subscribe  to  the 
Tintamarre  in  future.  Come,  good-night,  my  dear." 
He  turns  over.  "Hello,  your  hot- water  bottle  is  right 
at  the  bottom  of  the  bed;  I  can  feel  it  with  the  tips  of 
my  toes." 

"Well,  push  it  up;  do  you  think  that  I  can  dive  down 
there  after  it?" 

"Shall  I  ring  for  your  maid  to  help  you?"  He 
makes  a  movement  of  ill-temper,  pulls  the  clothes  up  to 

[182] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

his  chin,  and  buries  his  head  in  the  pillow.  "Good- 
night, my  dear." 

Madame,  somewhat  vexed,  says:  "Good-night,  good- 
night." 

The  respiration  of  Monsieur  grows  smooth,  and  even 
his  brows  relax,  his  forehead  becomes  calm,  he  is  on 
the  point  of  losing  all  consciousness  of  the  realities  of 
this  life. 

Madame  taps  lightly  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 

"Hum,"  growls  Monsieur. 

Madame  taps  again. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

Madame,  in  an  angelic  tone  of  voice,  "My  dear, 
would  you  put  out  the  candle?" 

Monsieur,  without  opening  his  eyes,  "The  hot- water 
bottle,  the  candle,  the  candle,  the  hot- water  bottle." 

"  Good  heavens!  how  irritable  you  are,  Oscar.  I  will 
put  it  out  myself.  Don't  trouble  yourself.  You  really 
have  a  very  bad  temper,  my  dear;  you  are  angry,  and 
if  you  were  goaded  a  little,  you  would,  in  five  minutes, 
be  capable  of  anything." 

Monsieur,  his  voice  smothered  in  the  pillow,  "No, 
not  at  all;  I  am  sleepy,  dear,  that  is  all.  Good-night, 
my  dear." 

Madame,  briskly,  "You  forget  that  in  domestic  life 
good  feeling  has  for  its  basis  reciprocal  considera- 
tion." 

"I  was  wrong — come,  good-night."  He  raises  him- 
self up  a  little.  "Would  you  like  me  to  kiss  you?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to,  but  I  permit."  She  puts  her 
face  toward  that  of  her  husband,  who  kisses  her  on  the 

[183] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

forehead.     "You  are  really  too  good,  you  have  kissed 
my  nightcap." 

Monsieur,  smiling,  "Your  hair  smells  very  nice  .  .  . 
You  see  I  am  so  sleepy.  Ah!  you  have  it  in  little 
plaits,  you  are  going  to  wave  it  to-morrow." 

11  To  wave  it.  You  were  the  first  to  find  that  that 
way  of  dressing  it  became  me,  besides,  it  is  the  fashion, 
and  to-morrow  is  my  reception  day.  Come,  you  irri- 
table man,  embrace  me  once  for  all  and  snore  at  your 
ease,  you  are  dying  to  do  so." 

She  holds  her  neck  toward  her  husband. 

Monsieur,  laughing,  "In  the  first  place,  I  never 
snore.  I  never  joke."  He  kisses  his  wife's  neck,  and 
rests  his  head  on  her  shoulder. 

"Well,  what  are  you  doing  there?"  is  her  remark. 

"I  am  digesting  my  kiss." 

Madame  affects  the  lackadaisical,  and  looks  sidewise 
at  her  husband  with  an  eye  half  disarmed.  Monsieur 
sniffs  the  loved  perfume  with  open  nostrils. 

After  a  period  of  silence  he  whispers  in  his  wife's 
ear,  "I  am  not  at  all  sleepy  now,  dear.  Are  your  feet 
still  cold?  I  will  find  the  hot- water  bottle." 

"Oh,  thanks,  put  out  the  light  and  let  us  go  to  sleep; 
I  am  quite  tired  out." 

She  turns  round  by  resting  her  arm  on  his  face. 

"No,  no,  I  won't  have  you  go  to  sleep  with  your  feet 
chilled;  there  is  nothing  worse.  There,  there  is  the 
hot-water  bottle,  warm  your  poor  little  feet  ...  there 
.  .  .  like  that." 

"Thanks,  I  am  very  comfortable.  Good-night,  dear, 
let  us  go  to  sleep." 

[184] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"Good-night,  my  dear." 

After  a  long  silence  Monsieur  turns  first  on  one  side 
and  then  on  the  other,  and  ends  by  tapping  lightly  on 
his  wife's  shoulder. 

Madame,  startled,  "What  is  the  matter?  Good 
heavens!  how  you  startled  me!" 

Monsieur,  smiling,  "Would  you  be  kind  enough  to 
put  out  the  candle?" 

"What!  is  it  for  that  you  wake  me  up  in  the  middle 
of  my  sleep  ?  I  shall  not  be  able  to  doze  again.  You 
are  unbearable." 

"You  find  me  unbearable?"  He  comes  quite  close 
to  his  wife;  " Come,  let  me  explain  my  idea  to  you." 

Madame  turns  round — her  eye  meets  the  eye  .  .  . 
full  of  softness  .  .  .  of  her  husband.  "Dear  me,  "she 
says,  "you  are  a  perfect  tiger." 

Then,  putting  her  mouth  to  his  ear,  she  murmurs 
with  a  smile,  "Come,  explain  your  idea,  for  the  sake  of 
peace  and  quiet." 

Madame,  after  a  very  long  silence,  and  half  asleep, 
"Oscar!" 

Monsieur,  his  eyes  closed,  in  a  faint  voice,  "My 
dear." 

"How  about  the  candle?  it  is  still  alight." 

"Ah!  the  candle.  I  will  put  it  out.  If  you  were 
very  nice  you  would  give  me  a  share  of  your  hot-water 
bottle;  one  of  my  feet  is  frozen.  Good-night." 

"Good-night." 

They  clasp  hands  and  fall  asleep. 


[185] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  LONGING 

MONSIEUR  and  MADAME  are  quietly  sitting  together 
— The  clock  has  just  struck  ten — MONSIEUR  is  in 
his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  is  leaning  back  in 
an  armchair  and  reading  the  newspaper — MADAME 
is  carelessly  working  squares  of  laces. 

jj 

*ADAME — Such   things    have    taken 

place,  have  they  not,  dear? 

Monsieur  (without  raising  his  eyes) 
— Yes,  my  dear. 

Madame — There,  well  I  should 
never  have  believed  it.  But  they 
are  monstrous,  are  they  not  ? 

Monsieur  (without  raising  his  eyes) 
— Yes,  my  dear. 

Madame — Well,  and  yet,  see  how  strange  it  is, 
Louise  acknowledged  it  to  me  last  month,  you  know; 
the  evening  she  called  for  me  to  go  to  the  perpetual 
Adoration,  and  our  hour  of  adoration,  as  it  turned  out, 
by  the  way,  was  from  six  to  seven;  impossible,  too,  to 
change  our  turn;  none  of  the  ladies  caring  to  adore 
during  dinner-time,  as  is  natural  enough.  Good 
heavens,  what  a  rage  we  were  in!  How  good  God 
must  be  to  have  forgiven  you.  Do  you  remember  ? 
Monsieur  (continuing  to  read) — Yes,  dear. 

[186] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Madame — Ah!  you  remember  that  you  said,  'I  don't 
care  a  .  .  .'  Oh!  but  I  won't  repeat  what  you  said, 
it  is  too  naughty.  How  angry  you  were !  '  I  will  go 
and  dine  at  the  restaurant,  confound  it!'  But  you  did 
not  say  confound,  ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  I  loved  you  just 
the  same  at  that  moment;  it  vexed  me  to  see  you  in  a 
rage  on  God's  account,  but  for  my  own  part  I  was 
pleased;  I  like  to  see  you  in  a  fury;  your  nostrils  ex- 
pand, and  then  your  moustache  bristles,  you  put  me  in 
mind  of  a  lion,  and  I  have  always  liked  lions.  When  I 
was  quite  a  child  at  the  Zoological  Gardens  they  could 
not  get  me  away  from  them;  I  threw  all  my  sous  into 
their  cage  for  them  to  buy  gingerbread  with;  it  was 
quite  a  passion.  Well,  to  continue  my  story.  (She 
looks  toward  her  husband  who  is  still  reading,  and 
ajter  a  pause,)  Is  it  interesting — that  which  you  are 
reading  ? 

Monsieur  (like  a  man  waking  up) — What  is  it,  my 
dear  child?  What  I  am  reading?  Oh,  it  would 
scarcely  interest  you.  (With  a  grimace.)  There  are 
Latin  phrases,  you  know,  and,  besides,  I  am  hoarse. 
But  I  am  listening,  go  on.  (He  resumes  his  news- 
paper.) 

Madame — Well,  to  return  to  the  perpetual  Adoration, 
Louise  confided  to  me,  under  the  pledge  of  secrecy, 
that  she  was  like  me. 

Monsieur — Like  you  ?    What  do  you  mean  ? 

Madame — Like  me ;  that  is  plain  enough. 

Monsieur — You  are  talking  nonsense,  my  little  angel, 
follies  as  great  as  your  chignon.  You  women  will  end 
by  putting  pillows  into  your  chignons. 

[187] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Madame  (resting  her  elbows  on  her  husband's  knees) 
—  But,  after  all,  the  instincts,  the  resemblances  we 
have,  must  certainly  be  attributed  to  something.  Can 
any  one  imagine,  for  instance,  that  God  made  your 
cousin  as  stupid  as  he  is,  and  with  a  head  like  a  pear  ? 

Monsieur — My  cousin!  my  cousin!  Ferdinand  is 
only  a  cousin  by  marriage.  I  grant,  however,  that  he 
is  not  very  bright. 

Madame — Well,  I  am  sure  that  his  mother  must  have 
had  a  longing,  or  something. 

Monsieur — What  can  I  do  to  help  it,  my  angel  ? 

Madame — Nothing  at  all;  but  it  clearly  shows  that 
such  things  are  not  to  be  laughed  at;  and  if  I  were  to 
tell  you  that  I  had  a  longing 

Monsieur  (letting  fall  his  newspaper) — The  devil!  a 
longing  for  what? 

Madame — Ah!  there  your  nostrils  are  dilating;  you 
are  going  to  resemble  a  lion  again,  and  I  never  shall 
dare  to  tell  you.  It  is  so  extraordinary,  and  yet  my 
mother  had  exactly  the  same  longing. 

Monsieur — Come,  tell  it  me,  you  see  that  I  am  pa- 
tient. If  it  is  possible  to  gratify  it,  you  know  that  I 
love  you,  my  .  .  .  Don't  kiss  me  on  the  neck;  you  will 
make  me  jump  up  to  the  ceiling,  my  darling. 

Madame — Repeat  those  two  little  words.  I  am  your 
darling,  then? 

Monsieur — Ha!  ha!  ha!  She  has  little  fingers  which 
—ha !  ha ! — go  into  your  neck — ha !  ha ! — you  will  make 
me  break  something,  nervous  as  I  am. 

Madame — Well,  break  something.  If  one  may  not 
touch  one's  husband,  one  may  as  well  go  into  a  convent 

[iBS] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  BEBE 

at  once.  (She  puts  her  lips  to  MONSIEUR'S  ear  and 
coquettishly  pulls  the  end  of  his  moustache.')  I  shall 
not  be  happy  till  I  have  what  I  am  longing  for,  and 
then  it  would  be  so  kind  of  you  to  do  it. 

Monsieur — Kind  to  do  what?  Come,  dear,  explain 
yourself. 

Madame — You  must  first  of  all  take  off  that  great, 
ugly  dressing-gown,  pull  on  your  boots,  put  on  your 
hat  and  go.  Oh,  don't  make  any  faces;  if  you  grumble 
in  the  least  all  the  merit  of  your  devotedness  will  dis- 
appear .  .  .  and  go  to  the  grocer's  at  the  corner  of  the 
street,  a  very  respectable  shop. 

Monsieur — To  the  grocer's  at  ten  o'clock  at  night! 
Are  you  mad?  I  will  ring  for  John;  it  is  his  business. 

Madame  (staying  his  hand) — You  indiscreet  man. 
These  are  our  own  private  affairs;  we  must  not  take  any 
one  into  our  confidence.  I  will  go  into  your  dressing- 
room  to  get  your  things,  and  you  will  put  your  boots 
on  before  the  fire  comfortably  ...  to  please  me,  Al- 
fred, my  love,  my  life.  I  would  give  my  little  finger  to 
have  .  .  . 

Monsieur — To  have  what,  hang  it  all,  what,  what, 
what? 

Madame  (her  face  alight  and  fixing  her  eyes  on 
him) — I  want  a  sou's  worth  of  paste.  Had  not  you 
guessed  it? 

Monsieur — But  it  is  madness,  delirium,  fol 

Madame — I  said  paste,  dearest;  only  a  sou's  worth, 
wrapped  in  strong  paper. 

Monsieur — No,  no.    I  am  kind-hearted,  but  I  should 

reproach  myself 

[189] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Madame  (closing  his  mouth  with  her  little  hands)— 
Oh,  not  a  word;  you  are  going  to  utter  something 
naughty.  But  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  a  mad 
longing  for  it,  that  I  love  you  as  I  have  never  loved  you 
yet,  that  my  mother  had  the  same  desire — Oh!  my 
poor  mother  (she  weeps  in  her  hands) ,  if  she  could  only 
know,  if  she  were  not  at  the  other  end  of  France. 
You  have  never  cared  for  my  parents;  I  saw  that  very 
well  on  our  wedding-day,  and  (she  sobs)  it  will  be  the 
sorrow  of  my  whole  life. 

Monsieur  (freeing  himself  and  suddenly  rising) — 
Give  me  my  boots. 

Madame  (with  effusion) — Oh,  thanks,  Alfred,  my 
love,  you  are  good,  yes,  you  are  good.  Will  you  have 
your  walking-stick,  dear  ? 

Monsieur — I  don't  care.  How  much  do  you  want 
of  that  abomination — a  franc's  worth,  thirty  sous' 
worth,  a  louis'  worth? 

Madame — You  know  very  well  that  I  would  not 
make  an  abuse  of  it — only  a  sou's  worth.  I  have  some 
sous  for  mass;  here,  take  one.  Adieu,  Alfred;  be 
quick;  be  quick! 

[Exit  MONSIEUR. 

Left  alone,  Madame  wafts  a  kiss  in  her  most  tender 
fashion  toward  the  door  Monsieur  has  just  closed  be- 
hind him,  then  goes  toward  the  glass  and  smiles  at 
herself  with  pleasure.  Then  she  lights  the  wax  candle 
in  a  little  candlestick,  and  quietly  makes  her  way  to 
the  kitchen,  noiselessly  opens  a  press,  takes  out  three 
little  dessert  plates,  bordered  with  gold  and  ornamented 

[190] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

with  her  initials,  next  takes  from  a  box  lined  with  white 
leather,  two  silver  spoons,  and,  somewhat  embarrassed 
by  all  this  luggage,  returns  to  her  bedroom. 

Then  she  pokes  the  fire,  draws  a  little  buhl  table 
close  up  to  the  hearth,  spreads  a  white  cloth,  sets  out 
the  plates,  puts  the  spoons  by  them,  and  enchanted, 
impatient,  with  flushed  complexion,  leans  back  in  an 
armchair.  Her  little  foot  rapidly  taps  the  floor,  she 
smiles,  pouts — she  is  waiting. 

At  last,  after  an  interval  of  some  minutes,  the  outer 
door  is  heard  to  close,  rapid  steps  cross  the  drawing- 
room,  Madame  claps  her  hands  and  Monsieur  comes 
in.  He  does  not  look  very  pleased,  as  he  advances 
holding  awkwardly  in  his  left  hand  a  flattened  parcel, 
the  contents  of  which  may  be  guessed. 

Madame  (touching  a  gold-bordered  plate  and  holding 
it  out  to  her  husband) — Relieve  yourself  of  it,  dear. 
Could  you  not  have  been  quicker? 

Monsieur — Quicker  ? 

Madame — Oh!  I  am  not  angry  with  you,  that  is  not 
meant  for  a  reproach,  you  are  an  angel ;  but  it  seems  to 
me  a  century  since  you  started. 

Monsieur — The  man  was  just  going  to  shut  his  shop 
up.  My  gloves  are  covered  with  it  .  .  .  it's  sticky  .  .  . 
it's  horrid,  pah!  the  abomination!  At  last  I  shall  have 
peace  and  quietness. 

Madame — Oh!  no  harsh  words,  they  hurt  me  so. 
But  look  at  this  pretty  little  table,  do  you  remember 
how  we  supped  by  the  fireside?  Ah!  you  have  for- 
gotten it,  a  man's  heart  has  no  memory. 

Monsieur — Are  you  so  mad  as  to  imagine  that  I 
[191] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

am  going  to  touch  it?  Oh!  indeed!  that  is  carry- 
ing— 

Madame  (sadly) — See  what  a  state  you  get  in  over 
a  little  favor  I  ask  of  you.  If  in  order  to  please  me 
you  were  to  overcome  a  slight  repugnance,  if  you  were 
just  to  touch  this  nice,  white  jelly  with  you  lips,  where 
would  be  the  harm? 

Monsieur — The  harm!  the  harm!  it  would  be  ridic- 
ulous. Never. 

Madame — That  is  the  reason?  "It  would  be  ab- 
surd." It  is  not  from  disgust,  for  there  is  nothing  dis- 
gusting there,  it  is  flour  and  water,  nothing  more.  It 
is  not  then  from  a  dislike,  but  out  of  pride  that  you 
refuse  ? 

Monsieur  (shrugging  his  shoulders) — What  you  say 
is  childish,  puerile,  silly.  I  do  not  care  to  answer  it. 

Madame — And  what  you  say  is  neither  generous  nor 
worthy  of  you,  since  you  abuse  your  superiority.  You 
see  me  at  your  feet  pleading  for  an  insignificant  thing, 
puerile,  childish,  foolish,  perhaps,  but  one  which  would 
give  me  pleasure,  and  you  think  it  heroic  not  to  yield. 
Do  you  want  me  to  speak  out,  well  ?  then,  you  men 
are  unfeeling. 

Monsieur — Never. 

Madame — Why,  you  admitted  it  to  me  yourself  one 
night,  on  the  Pont  des  Arts,  as  we  were  walking  home 
from  the  theatre. 

Monsieur — After  all,  there  is  no  great  harm  in  that. 

Madame  (sadly) — I  am  not  angry  with  you,  this 
sternness  is  part  of  your  nature,  you  are  a  rod  of  iron. 

Monsieur — I  have  some  energy  when  it  is  needed,  I 

[192] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

grant  you,  but  I  have  not  the  absurd  pride  you  imagine, 
and  there  (he  dips  his  finger  in  the  paste  and  carries  it 
to  his  lips),  is  the  proof,  you  spoilt  child.  Are  you 
satisfied?  It  has  no  taste,  it  is  insipid. 

Madame — You  were  pretending. 

Monsieur — I  swear  to  you  .  .  . 

Madame  (taking  a  little  spoon,  filling  it  with  her 
precious  paste  and  holding  it  to  her  husband's  lips) — I 
want  to  see  the  face  you  will  make,  love. 

Monsieur  (Puts  out  his  lips,  buries  his  two  front 
teeth,  with  marked  disgust,  in  the  paste,  makes  a  hor- 
rible face  and  spits  into  the  fireplace) — Eugh. 

Madame  (still  holding  the  spoon  and  with  much  inter- 
est)— Well? 

Monsieur — Well!  it  is  awful!  oh!  awful!  taste  it. 

Madame  (dreamily  stirring  the  paste  with  the  spoon, 
her  little  -finger  in  the  air) — I  should  never  have  be- 
lieved that  it  was  so  nasty. 

Monsieur — You  will  soon  see  for  yourself,  taste  it, 
taste  it. 
,  Madame — I  am  in  no  hurry,  I  have  plenty  of  time. 

Monsieur — To  see  what  it  is  like.  Taste  a  little, 
come. 

Madame  (pushing  away  the  plate  with  a  look  of 
horror) — Oh!  how  you  worry  me.  Be  quiet,  do;  for 
a  trifle  I  could  hate  you.  It  is  disgusting,  this  paste 
of  yours! 


T93 


CHAPTER  XXII 


FAMILY  LIFE 

T  was  the  evening  of  the  15th  of  Feb- 
ruary. It  was  dreadfully  cold.  The 
snow  drove  against  the  windows  and 
the  wind  whistled  furiously  under  the 
doors.  My  two  aunts,  seated  at  a 
table  in  one  corner  of  the  drawing- 
room,  gave  vent  from  time  to  time  to 
deep  sighs,  and,  wriggling  in  their 
armchairs,  kept  casting  uneasy  glances  toward  the  bed- 
room door.  One  of  them  had  taken  from  a  little 
leather  bag  placed  on  the  table  her  blessed  rosary  and 
was  repeating  her  prayers,  while  her  sister  was  reading 
a  volume  of  Voltaire's  correspondence  which  she  held 
at  a  distance  from  her  eyes,  her  lips  moving  as  she 
perused  it. 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  striding  up  and  down  the 
room,  gnawing  my  moustache,  a  bad  habit  I  have 
never  been  able  to  get  rid  of,  and  halting  from  time  to 
time  in  front  of  Dr.  C.,  an  old  friend  of  mine,  who  was 
quietly  reading  the  paper  in  the  most  comfortable  of 
the  armchairs.  I  dared  not  disturb  him,  so  absorbed 
did  he  seem  in  what  he  was  reading,  but  in  my  heart  I 
was  furious  to  see  him  so  quiet  when  I  myself  was  so 
agitated. 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Suddenly  he  tossed  the  paper  on  to  the  couch  and, 
passing  his  hand  across  his  bald  and  shining  head, 
said: 

"Ah!  if  I  were  a  minister,  it  would  not  take  long, 
no,  it  would  not  be  very  long.  .  .  .  You  have  read 
that  article  on  Algerian  cotton.  One  of  two  things, 
either  irrigation.  .  .  .  But  you  are  not  listening  to  me, 
and  yet  it  is  a  more  serious  matter  than  you  think." 

He  rose,  and  with  his  hands  in  his  pocket,  walked 
across  the  room  humming  an  old  medical  student's 
song.  I  followed  him  closely. 

"Jacques,"  said  I,  as  he  turned  round,  "tell  me 
frankly,  are  you  satisfied?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  am  satisfied  .  .  .  observe  my  untroubled 
look,"  and  he  broke  into  his  hearty  and  somewhat 
noisy  laugh. 

"You  are  not  hiding  anything  from  me,  my  dear 
fellow?" 

"What  a  donkey  you  are,  old  fellow.  I  tell  you  that 
everything  is  going  on  well." 

And  he  resumed  his  song,  jingling  the  money  in  his 
pockets. 

"All  is  going  on  well,  but  it  will  take  some  time," 
he  went  on.  "  Let  me  have  one  of  your  dressing-gowns. 
I  shall  be  more  comfortable  for  the  night,  and  these 
ladies  will  excuse  me,  will  they  not?" 

"Excuse  you,  I  should  think  so,  you,  the  doctor, 
and  my  friend!"  I  felt  devotedly  attached  to  him  that 
evening. 

"Well,  then,  if  they  will  excuse  me,  you  can  very 
well  let  me  have  a  pair  of  slippers." 

[I95J 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

At  this  moment  a  cry  came  from  the  next  room  and 
we  distinctly  heard  these  words  in  a  stifled  voice: 

"Doctor  ...  oh!  mon  Dieu !  .  .  .  doctor!" 

"It  is  frightful,"  murmured  my  aunts. 

"My  dear  friend,"  I  exclaimed,  seizing  the  doctor's 
arm, "you  are  quite  sure  you  are  not  concealing  any- 
thing from  me?" 

"If  you  have  a  very  loose  pair  they  will  suit  me  best; 
I  have  not  the  foot  of  a  young  girl.  ...  I  am  not  con- 
cealing anything,  I  am  not  concealing  anything.  .  .  . 
What  do  you  think  I  should  hide  from  you?  It  is  all 

going  on  very  well,  only  as  I  said  it  will  take  time 

By  the  way,  tell  Joseph  to  get  me  one  of  your  smoking- 
caps;  once  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers  a  smoking- 
cap  is  not  out  of  the  way,  and  I  am  getting  bald,  my 
dear  Captain.  How  infernally  cold  it  is  here]  These 
windows  face  the  north,  and  there  are  no  sand-bags. 
—Mademoiselle  de  V.,"  he  added,  turning  to  my  aunt, 
"you  will  catch  cold." 

Then  as  other  sounds  were  heard,  he  said:  "Let  us 
go  and  see  the  little  lady." 

"Come  here,"  said  my  wife,  who  had  caught  sight 
of  me,  in  a  low  voice,  "come  here  and  shake  hands  with 
me."  Then  she  drew  me  toward  her  and  whispered 
in  my  ear:  "You  will  be  pleased  to  kiss  the  little  dar- 
ling, won't  you  ?"  Her  voice  was  so  faint  and  so  tender 
as  she  said  this,  and  she  added:  "Do  not  take  your 
hand  away,  it  gives  me  courage." 

I  remained  beside  her,  therefore,  while  the  doctor, 
who  had  put  on  my  dressing-gown,  vainly  strove  to 
button  it. 

[196] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

From  time  to  time  my  poor  little  wife  squeezed  rny 
hand  violently,  closing  her  eyes,  but  not  uttering  a  cry. 
The  fire  sparkled  on  the  hearth.  The  pendulum  of 
the  clock  went  on  with  its  monotonous  ticking,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that  all  this  calm  was  only  apparent,  that 
everything  about  me  must  be  in  a  state  of  expectation 
like  myself  and  sharing  my  emotion.  In  the  bedroom 
beyond,  the  door  of  which  was  ajar,  I  could  see  the  end 
of  the  cradle  and  the  shadow  of  the  nurse  who  was 
dozing  while  she  waited. 

What  I  felt  was  something  strange.  I  felt  a  new 
sentiment  springing  up  in  my  heart,  I  seemed  to  have 
some  foreign  body  within  my  breast,  and  this  sweet 
sensation  was  so  new  to  me  that  I  was,  as  it  were, 
alarmed  at  it.  I  felt  the  little  creature,  who  was  there 
without  yet  being  there,  clinging  to  me;  his  whole  life 
unrolled  itself  before  me.  I  saw  him  at  the  same  time 
a  child  and  a  grown-up  man ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  my 
own  life  was  about  to  be  renewed  in  his  and  I  felt  from 
time  to  time  an  irresistible  need  of  giving  him  some- 
thing of  myself. 

Toward  half-past  eleven,  the  doctor,  like  a  captain 
consulting  his  compass,  pulled  out  his  watch,  muttered 
something  and  drew  near  the  bed. 

"Come,  my  dear  lady,"  said  he  to  my  wife,  "cour- 
age, we  are  all  round  you  and  all  is  going  well;  within 
five  minutes  you  will  hear  him  cry  out." 

My  mother-in-law,  almost  beside  herself,  was  biting 
her  lips  and  each  pang  of  the  sufferer  was  reflected 
upon  her  face.  Her  cap  had  got  disarranged  in  such 
a  singular  fashion  that,  under  any  other  circumstances, 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

I  should  have  burst  out  laughing.  At  that  moment  I 
heard  the  drawing-room  door  open  and  saw  the  heads 
of  my  aunts,  one  above  the  other,  and  behind  them  that 
of  my  father,  who  was  twisting  his  heavy  white  mous- 
tache with  a  grimace  that  was  customary  to  him. 

"Shut  the  door,"  cried  the  doctor,  angrily,  "don't 
bother  me." 

And  with  the  greatest  coolness  in  the  world  he  turned 
to  my  mother-in-law  and  added,  "I  ask  a  thousand 
pardons." 

But  just  then  there  was  something  else  to  think  of 
than  my  old  friend's  bluntness. 

"Is  everything  ready  to  receive  him?"  he  continued, 
growling. 

"Yes,  my  dear  doctor,"  replied  my  mother-in- 
law. 

At  length,  the  doctor  lifted  into  the  air  a  little 
object  which  almost  immediately  uttered  a  cry  as 
piercing  as  a  needle.  I  shall  never  forget  the  impres- 
sion produced  on  me  by  this  poor  little  thing,  making 
its  appearance  thus,  all  of  a  sudden,  in  the  middle  of 
the  family.  We  had  thought  and  dreamed  of  it;  I 
had  seen  him  in  my  mind's  eye,  my  darling  child,  play- 
ing with  a  hoop,  pulling  my  moustache,  trying  to  walk, 
or  gorging  himself  with  milk  in  his  nurse's  arms  like  a 
gluttonous  little  kitten;  but  I  had  never  pictured  him 
to  myself,  inanimate,  almost  lifeless,  quite  tiny,  wrinkled, 
hairless,  grinning,  and  yet,  charming,  adorable,  and  be- 
loved in  spite  of  all — poor,  ugly,  little  thing.  It  was  a 
strange  impression,  and  so  singular  that  it  is  impossible 
to  understand  it,  without  having  experienced  it. 

[198! 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"What  luck  you  have!"  said  the  doctor,  holding  the 
child  toward  me;  " it  is  a  boy." 

"A  boy!" 

"And  a  fine  one." 

"Really,  a  boy!" 

That  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me  now.  What 
was  causing  me  indescribable  emotion  was  the  living 
proof  of  paternity,  this  little  being  who  was  my  own. 
I  felt  stupefied  in  presence  of  the  great  mystery  of 
childbirth.  My  wife  was  there,  fainting,  overcome, 
and  the  little  living  creature,  my  own  flesh,  my  own 
blood,  was  squalling  and  gesticulating  in  the  hands  of 
Jacques.  I  was  overwhelmed,  like  a  workman  who 
had  unconsciously  produced  a  masterpiece.  I  felt  my- 
self quite  small  in  presence  of  this  quivering  piece  of 
my  own  handiwork,  and,  frankly,  a  little  bit  ashamed 
of  having  made  it  so  well  almost  without  troubling 
about  it.  I  can  not  undertake  to  explain  all  this,  I 
merely  relate  my  impressions. 

My  mother-in-law  held  out  her  apron  and  the  doctor 
placed  the  child  on  his  grandmother's  knees,  saying: 
"Come,  little  savage,  try  not  to  be  any  worse  than  your 
rascal  of  a  father.  Now  for  five  minutes  of  emotion. 
Come,  Captain,  embrace  me." 

We  did  so  heartily.  The  doctor's  little  black  eyes 
twinkled  more  brightly  than  usual;  I  saw  very  well 
that  he  was  moved. 

"Did  it  make  you  feel  queer,  Captain?  I  mean 
the  cry?  Ah!  I  know  it,  it  is  like  a  needle  through 
the  heart.  .  .  .  Where  is  the  nurse?  Ah!  here  she 
is.  No  matter,  he  is  a  fine  boy,  your  little  lancer. 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Open   the  door  for  the  prisoners  in  the   drawing- 
room." 

I  opened  the  door.  Every  one  was  listening  on  the 
other  side  of  it.  My  father,  my  two  aunts,  still  holding 
in  their  hands,  one  her  rosary  and  the  other  her  Vol- 
taire, my  own  nurse,  poor  old  woman,  who  had  come 
in  a  cab. 

"Well,"  they  exclaimed  anxiously,  "well?" 

"It  is  all  over,  it  is  a  boy;  go  in,  he  is  there." 

You  can  not  imagine  how  happy  I  was  to  see  on  all 
their  faces  the  reflection  of  my  own  emotion.  They 
embraced  me  and  shook  hands  with  me,  and  I  responded 
to  all  these  marks  of  affection  without  exactly  knowing 
where  they  came  from. 

"Damn  it  all!"  muttered  my  father,  in  my  ear,  hold- 
ing me  in  his  arms,  with  his  stick  still  in  his  hand  and 
his  hat  on  his  head,  "Damn  it  all!" 

But  he  could  not  finish,  however  brave  he  might 
wish  to  appear;  a  big  tear  was  glittering  at  the  tip  of 
his  nose.  He  muttered  "Hum!"  under  his  moustache 
and  finally  burst  into  tears  on  my  shoulder,  saying: 
"I  can  not  help  it." 

And  I  did  likewise — I  could  not  help  it  either. 

However,  everybody  was  flocking  round  the  grand- 
mamma, who  lifted  up  a  corner  of  her  apron  and  said : 

"How  pretty  he  is,  the  darling,  how  pretty!  Nurse, 
warm  the  linen,  give  me  the  caps." 

"Smile  at  your  aunty,"  said  my  aunt,  jangling  her 
rosary  above  the  baby's  head,  "smile  at  aunty." 

"Ask  him  at  the  same  time  to  recite  a  fable,"  said 
the  doctor. 

[  200  ] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Meanwhile  my  wife  was  coming  to  herself ;  she  half 
opened  her  eyes  and  seemed  to  be  looking  for  some- 
thing. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  murmured  in  a  faint  voice. 

They  showed  her  her  mother's  apron. 

"A  boy,  is  it  not?" 

Taking  my  hand,  she  drew  me  down  toward  her  and 
said  in  a  whisper,  "Are  you  satisfied  with  me?  I  did 
my  best,  dear." 

"Come,  no  emotion,"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  "you 
shall  kiss  each  other  to-morrow.  Colonel,"  he  said  to 
my  father,  who  still  retained  his  hat  and  stick,  "keep 
them  from  kissing.  No  emotion,  and  every  one  outside. 
I  am  going  to  dress  the  little  lancer.  Give  me  the  little 
man,  grandmamma.  Come  here,  little  savage.  You 
shall  see  whether  I  don't  know  how  to  fasten  pins  in." 

He  took  the  baby  in  his  two  large  hands  and  sat  down 
on  a  stool  before  the  fire. 

I  watched  my  boy  whom  Jacques  was  turning  about 
like  a  doll,  but  with  great  skill.  He  examined  him  all 
over,  touching  and  feeling  him,  and  at  each  test  said 
with  a  smile: 

"He  is  a  fine  one,  he  is  a  fine  one." 

Then  he  rolled  him  up  in  his  clothes,  put  a  triple  cap 
on  his  little  bald  head,  tied  a  folded  ribbon  under  his 
chin  to  prevent  his  head  falling  backward,  and  then, 
satisfied  with  his  work,  said: 

"You  saw  how  I  did  it,  nurse?  Well,  you  must 
dress  this  lancer  every  morning  in  the  same  way. 
Nothing  but  a  little  sugar  and  water  till  to-morrow. 
The  mother  has  no  fever.  Come,  all  is  going  on  well. 

[201] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Lucky  Captain!  I  am  so  hungry.  Do  you  know  that 
it  is  one  in  the  morning?  You  haven't  got  cold  par- 
tridge or  a  bit  of  pie  that  you  don't  know  what  to  do 
with,  have  you  ?  It  would  suit  me  down  to  the  ground, 
with  a  bottle  of  something." 

We  went  both  into  the  dining-room  and  laid  the 
cloth  without  any  more  ceremony. 

I  never  in  my  life  ate  and  drank  so  much  as  on  that 
occasion. 

"Come,  get  off  to  bed,"  said  the  doctor,  putting  on 
his  coat.  "To-morrow  morning  you  shall  have  the 
wet-nurse.  No,  by  the  way,  I'll  call  for  you,  and  we 
will  go  and  choose  her  together;  it  is  curious.  Be 
under  arms  at  half-past  eight." 


^202  ] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY 

[T   is   barely   seven   o'clock.    A   pale 
ray  of  daylight  is  stealing  through  the 
double  curtains,   and   already  some 
one  is  tapping  at  the  door.    I  can 
hear  in  the  next  room  from  the  stifled 
laughter   and    the    silvery   tones   of 
Baby,  who  is  quivering  with  impa- 
tience, and  asking  leave  to  come  in. 
"Papa,"  he  cries,  "it  is  Baby,  it  is  Baby  come  for 
the  New  Year." 

"Come  in,  my  darling;  come  quick,  and  kiss  us." 
The  door  opens  and  my  boy,  his  eyes  aglow,  and  his 
arms  raised,  rushes  toward  the  bed.  His  curls,  escap- 
ing from  the  nightcap  covering  his  head,  float  on  his 
forehead.  His  long,  loose  night-shirt,  catching  his  little 
feet,  increases  his  impatience,  and  causes  him  to  stumble 
at  every  step. 

At  length  he  crosses  the  room,  and,  holding  out  his 
two  hands  to  mine:  "Baby  wishes  you  a  Happy  New 
Year,"  he  says,  in  an  earnest  voice. 

"Poor  little  love,  with  his  bare  feet!  Come,  darling, 
and  warm  yourself  under  the  counterpane." 

I  lift  him  toward  me,  but  at  this  moment  my  wife, 
who  is  asleep,  suddenly  wakes. 

[203] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"Who  is  there?"  she  exclaims,  feeling  for  the  bell. 
"Thieves!" 

"It  is  we  two,  dear." 

"Who?  Good  heavens!  how  you  frightened  me !  I 
was  dreaming  the  house  was  on  fire,  and  that  I  heard 
your  voice  amid  the  raging  flames.  You  were  very  in- 
discreet in  shouting  like  that!" 

"Shouting!  but  you  forget,  mamma,  that  it  is  New 
Year's  Day,  the  day  of  smiles  and  kisses?  Baby  was 
waiting  for  you  to  wake  up,  as  well  as  myself." 

However,  I  wrap  the  little  fellow  up  in  the  eider- 
down quilt  and  warm  his  cold  feet  in  my  hands. 

"Mamma,  it  is  New  Year's  Day,"  he  exclaims. 
With  his  arms  he  draws  our  two  heads  together,  puts 
forward  his  own  and  kisses  us  at  haphazard  with  his 
moist  lips.  I  feel  his  dimpled  fists  digging  into  my  neck, 
his  little  fingers  entangled  in  my  beard. 

My  moustache  tickles  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and  he 
bursts  into  a  fit  of  joyous  laughter  as  he  throws  his 
head  back. 

His  mother,  who  has  recovered  from  her  fright,  takes 
him  in  her  arms  and  rings  the  bell. 

"The  year  is  beginning  well,  dear,"  she  says,  "but 
we  must  have  a  little  daylight." 

"Mamma,  naughty  children  don't  have  any  new  toys 
on  New  Year's  Day,  do  they?" 

And  as  he  says  this  the  sly  fellow  eyes  a  pile  of  par- 
cels and  packages  heaped  up  in  one  corner j  visible 
despite  the  semi-darkness. 

Soon  the  curtains  are  drawn  aside,  and  the  shutters 
opened;  daylight  floods  the  room;  the  fire  crackles 

[204] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

merrily  on  the  hearth,  and  two  large  parcels,  carefully 
tied  up,  are  placed  on  the  bed.  One  is  for  my  wife, 
and  the  other  for  my  boy. 

" What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  I  have  multiplied  the 
knots  and  tripled  the  wrappings,  and  I  gleefully  follow 
their  impatient  fingers  entangled  among  the  strings. 

My  wife  gets  impatient,  smiles,  pouts,  kisses  me,  and 
asks  for  the  scissors. 

Baby  on  his  side  tugs  with  all  his  might,  biting  his 
lips  as  he  does  so,  and  ends  by  asking  my  help.  His 
look  strives  to  penetrate  the  wrappers.  All  the  signs 
of  desire  and  expectation  are  stamped  on  his  face. 
His  hand,  hidden  under  the  coverlet,  causes  the  silk  to 
rustle  with  his  convulsive  movements,  and  his  lips 
quiver  as  at  the  approach  of  some  dainty. 

At  length  the  last  paper  falls  aside.  The  lid  is  lifted, 
and  joy  breaks  forth. 

"A  fur  tippet!" 

"A  Noah's  ark!" 

"To  match  my  muff,  dear,  kind  husband." 

"With  a  Noah  on  wheels,  dear  papa.  I  do  love 
you  so." 

They  throw  themselves  on  my  neck,  four  arms  are 
clasped  round  me  at  once.  Emotion  gets  the  better  of 
me,  and  a  tear  steals  into  my  eye.  There  are  two  in 
those  of  my  wife,  and  Baby,  losing  his  head,  sobs  as  he 
kisses  my  hand. 

It  is  absurd. 

Absurd,  I  don't  know;  but  delightful,  I  can  answer 
for  it. 

Does  not  grief,  after  all,  call  forth  enough  tears  for 
[205] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

us  to  forgive  joy  the  solitary  one  she  perchance  causes 
us  to  shed! 

Life  is  not  so  sweet  for  us  to  risk  ourselves  in  it  sin- 
gle-handed, and  when  the  heart  is  empty  the  way  seems 
very  long. 

It  is  so  pleasant  to  feel  one's  self  loved,  to  hear  beside 
one  the  cadenced  steps  of  one's  fellow-travellers,  and 
to  say,  "They  are  here,  our  three  hearts  beat  in  uni- 
son." So  pleasant  once  a  year,  when  the  great  clock 
strikes  the  first  of  January,  to  sit  down  beside  the  path, 
with  hands  locked  together,  and  eyes  fixed  on  the  un- 
known dusty  road  losing  itself  in  the  horizon,  and  to 
say,  while  embracing  one  another,  "We  still  love  one 
another,  my  dear  children;  you  rely  on  me,  and  I  rely 
on  you.  Let  us  have  confidence,  and  walk  stead- 
fastly." 

This  is  how  I  explain  that  one  may  weep  a  little 
while  examining  a  new  fur  tippet  and  opening  a 
Noah's  ark. 

But  breakfast  time  draws  near.  I  have  cut  myself 
twice  while  shaving;  I  have  stepped  on  my  son's  wild 
beasts  in  turning  round,  and  I  have  the  prospect  of  a 
dozen  duty  calls,  as  my  wife  terms  them,  before  me; 
yet  I  am  delighted. 

We  sit  down  to  the  breakfast  table,  which  has  a  more 
than  usually  festive  aspect.  A  faint  aroma  of  truffles 
perfumes  the  air,  every  one  is  smiling,  and  through  the 
glass  I  see,  startling  sight!  the  doorkeeper,  with  his 
own  hands,  wiping  the  hand-rail  of  the  staircase.  It  is 
a  glorious  day. 

Baby  has  ranged  his  elephants,  lions,  and  giraffes 
[206] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

round  his  plate,  and  his  mother,  under  pretext  of  a 
draught,  breakfasts  in  her  tippet. 

"Have  you  ordered  the  carriage,  dear,  for  our 
visits?"  I  ask. 

"That  cushion  for  Aunt  Ursula  will  take  up  such  a 
deal  of  room.  It  might  be  put  beside  the  coachman." 

"Poor  aunt." 

"Papa,  don't  let  us  go  to  Aunt  Ursula,"  said  Baby; 
"she  pricks  so  when  she  kisses  you." 

"Naughty  boy.  .  .  .  Think  of  all  we  have  to  get  into 
the  carriage.  Leon's  rocking-horse,  Louise's  muff, 
your  father's  slippers,  Ernestine's  quilt,  the  bonbons, 
.the  work-box.  I  declare,  aunt's  cushion  must  go  under 
the  coachman's  feet." 

"Papa,  why  doesn't  the  giraffe  eat  cutlets?" 

"I  really  don't  know,  dear." 

"Neither  do  I,  papa." 

An  hour  later  we  are  ascending  the  staircase  leading 
to  Aunt  Ursula's.  My  wife  counts  the  steps  as  she  pulls 
herself  up  by  the  hand-rail,  and  I  carry  the  famous 
cushion,  the  bonbons,  and  my  son,  who  has  insisted  on 
bringing  his  giraffe  with  him. 

Aunt  Ursula,  who  produces  the  same  effect  on  him  as 
the  sight  of  a  rod  would,  is  waiting  us  hi  her  icy  little 
drawing-room.  Four  square  armchairs,  hidden  be- 
neath yellow  covers,  stand  vacant  behind  four  little 
mats.  A  clock  in  the  shape  of  a  pyramid,  surmounted 
on  a  sphere,  ticks  under  a  glass  case. 

A  portrait  on  the  wall,  covered  with  fly-spots,  shows 
a  nymph  with  a  lyre,  standing  beside  a  waterfall. 
This  nymph  was  Aunt  Ursula.  How  she  has  altered ! 

[207] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"My  dear  aunt,  we  have  come  to  wish  you  a  Happy 
New  Year." 

"To  express  our  hopes  that " 

"Thank  you,  nephew,  thank  you,  niece,"  and  she 
points  to  two  chairs.  "I  am  sensible  of  this  step  on 
your  part ;  it  proves  to  me  that  you  have  not  altogether 
forgotten  the  duties  imposed  upon  you  by  family  ties." 

"You  are  reckoning,  my  dear  aunt,  without  the 
affection  we  feel  for  you,  and  which  of  itself  is  enough 
.  .  .  Baby,  go  and  kiss  your  aunt." 

Baby  whispers  in  my  ear,  "But,  papa,  I  tell  you  she 
does  prick." 

I  place  the  bonbons  on  a  side-table. 

"You  can,  nephew,  dispense  with  offering  me  that 
little  gift;  you  know  that  sweetmeats  disagree  with  me, 
and,  if  I  were  not  aware  of  your  indifference  as  to  the 
state  of  my  health,  I  should  see  in  your  offering  a  veiled 
sarcasm.  But  let  that  pass.  Does  your  father  still 
bear  up  against  his  infirmities  courageously?" 

"Thank  you,  yes." 

"I  thought  to  please  you,  dear  aunt,"  observes  my 
wife,  "by  embroidering  for  you  this  cushion,  which  I 
beg  you  to  accept." 

"I  thank  you,  child,  but  I  can  still  hold  myself  suf- 
ficiently upright,  thank  God,  not  to  have  any  need  of  a 
cushion.  The  embroidery  is  charming,  it  is  an  Oriental 
design.  You  might  have  made  a  better  choice,  know- 
ing that  I  like  things  much  more  simple.  It  is  charm- 
ing, however,  although  this  red  next  to  the  green  here 
sets  one's  teeth  on  edge.  Taste  hi  colors  is,  however, 
not  given  to  every  one.  I  have,  in  return,  to  offer  you 

[208] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

my  photograph,  which  that  dear  Abbe  Miron  insisted 
on  my  having  taken." 

"How  kind  you  are,  and  how  like  you  it  is!  Do 
you  recognize  your  aunt,  Baby?" 

"Do  not  think  yourself  obliged  to  speak  contrary  to 
your  opinion.  This  photograph  does  not  in  any  way 
resemble  me,  my  eyes  are  much  brighter.  I  have  also 
a  packet  of  jujubes  for  your  child.  He  seems  to  have 
grown." 

"Baby,  go  and  kiss  your  aunt." 

"And  then  we  shall  go,  mamma?" 

"You  are  very  rude,  my  dear." 

"Let  him  speak  out;  at  any  rate,  he  is  frank.  But  I 
see  that  your  husband  is  getting  impatient,  you  have 
other  .  .  .  errands  to  fulfil;  I  will  not  keep  you.  Be- 
sides, I  am  going  to  church  to  pray  for  those  who  do 
not  pray  for  themselves." 

From  twelve  duty  calls,  subtract  one  duty  call,  and 
eleven  remain.  Hum!  "Coachman,  Rue  St.  Louis 
au  Marais." 

"Papa,  has  Aunt  Ursula  needles  in  her  chin?" 

Let  us  pass  over  the  eleven  duty  calls,  they  are  no 
more  agreeable  to  write  of  than  to  make. 

Toward  seven  o'clock,  heaven  be  praised,  the  horses 
stop  before  my  father's,  where  dinner  awaits  us.  Baby 
claps  his  hands,  and  smiles  at  old  Jeannette,  who,  at 
the  sound  of  the  wheels,  has  rushed  to  the  door.  "Here 
they  are,"  she  exclaims,  and  she  carries  off  Baby  to 
the  kitchen,  where  my  mother,  with  her  sleeves  turned 
up,  is  giving  the  finishing  touch  to  her  traditional 
plum  cake. 

14  [  209  ] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

My  father,  on  his  way  to  the  cellar,  lantern  in  hand, 
and  escorted  by  his  old  servant,  Jean,  who  is  carrying 
the  basket,  halts.  "Why,  children,  how  late  you  are! 
Come  to  my  arms,  my  dears;  this  is  the  day  on  which 
one  kisses  in  good  earnest.  Jean,  hold  my  lantern  a 
minute."  And  as  my  old  father  clasps  me  to  his 
breast,  his  hand  seeks  out  mine  and  grasps  it,  with  a 
long  clasp.  Baby,  who  glides  in  between  our  legs,  pulls 
our  coat-tails  and  holds  up  his  little  mouth  for  a 
kiss  too. 

"But  I  am  keeping  you  here  in  the  anteroom  and 
you  are  frozen;  go  into  the  drawing-room,  there  are  a 
good  fire  and  good  friends  there." 

They  have  heard  us,  the  door  opens,  and  a  number 
of  arms  are  held  out  to  us.  Amid  handshakings,  em- 
bracings,  good  wishes,  and  kisses,  boxes  are  opened, 
bonbons  are  showered  forth,  parcels  are  undone,  mirth 
becomes  deafening,  and  good  humor  tumultuous. 
Baby  standing  amid  his  presents  resembles  a  drunken 
man  surrounded  by  a  treasure,  and  from  time  to  time 
gives  a  cry  of  joy  on  discovering  some  fresh  toy. 

"The  little  man's  fable,"  exclaims  my  father,  swing- 
ing his  lantern  which  he  has  taken  again  from  Jean. 

A  deep  silence  ensues,  and  the  poor  child,  whose 
debut  in  the  elocutionary  art  it  is,  suddenly  loses  coun- 
tenance. He  casts  down  his  eyes,  blushes  and  takes 
refuge  in  the  arms  of  his  mother,  who,  stooping  down, 
whispers,  "Come,  darling,  'A  lamb  was  quenching'; 
you  know  the  wolf  and  the  lamb." 

"Yes,  mamma,  I  know  the  little  lamb  that  wanted 
to  drink."  And  in  a  contrite  voice,  his  head  bent  down 

[210] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

on  his  breast,  he  repeats  with  a  deep  sigh,  "'A  little 
lamb  was  quenching  his  thirst  in  a  clear  stream.' " 

We  all,  with  ears  on  the  alert  and  a  smile  on  our  lips, 
follow  his  delightful  little  jargon. 

Uncle  Bertrand,  who  is  rather  deaf,  has  made  an  ear 
trumpet  of  his  hand  and  drawn  his  chair  up.  "Ah!  I 
can  follow  it,"  he  says.  "It  is  the  fox  and  the  grapes." 
And  as  there  is  a  murmur  of  "Hush,"  at  this  interrup- 
tion, he  adds:  "Yes,  yes,  he  recites  with  intelligence, 
great  intelligence." 

Success  restores  confidence  to  my  darling,  who  fin- 
ishes his  fable  with  a  burst  of  laughter.  Joy  is  com- 
municative, and  we  take  our  places  at  table  amid  the 
liveliest  mirth. 

"By  the  way,"  says  my  father,  "where  the  deuce  is 
my  lantern.  I  have  forgotten  all  about  the  cellar. 
Jean,  take  your  basket  and  let  us  go  and  rummage  be- 
hind the  fagots." 

The  soup  is  smoking,  and  my  mother,  after  having 
glanced  smilingly  round  the  table,  plunges  her  ladle  into 
the  tureen.  Give  me  the  family  dinner  table  at  which 
those  we  love  are  seated,  at  which  we  may  risk  resting 
our  elbows  at  dessert,  and  at  which  at  thirty  we  once 
more  taste  the  wine  offered  at  our  baptism. 


[211] 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

LETTERS   OF  A  YOUNG  MOTHER  TO  HER  FRIEND. 

'HE  little  caps  are  the  ones  I  want,  Marie. 
Be  good  enough  to  send  me  the  pattern  of 
the  braces,  those  of  your  own  invention,  you 
know.    Thanks  for  your  coverlet,  it  is  soft, 
flexible,   warm,   and   charming,   and   Baby, 
amid   its  white  wool,  looks   like  a   rosebud 
hidden  in  the  snow.     I  am  becoming  poetical, 
am  I  not  ?    But  what  would  you  have  ?    My 
poor  heart  is  overflowing  with  joy.     My  son, 
do  you  understand  that,  dear,  my  own  son? 
When  I  heard  the  sharp  cry  of  the  little  being  whom  my  mother 
showed  me  lying  in  her  apron,  it  seemed  to  me  that  a  burning  thrill 
of  love  shot  through  my  veins.     My  old  doctor's  bald  head  was 
close  to  me,  I  caught  hold  of  it  and  kissed  him  thrice. 
"Calm  yourself,  my  dear  child,"  said  he. 
"  Doctor,  be  quiet,  or  I  will  kiss  you  again.     Give  me  my  baby, 
my  love.     Are  you  quite  sure  it  is  a  boy?" 

And  in  the  adjoining  drawing-room,  where  the  whole  family 
were  waiting,  I  could  hear  amid  the  sound  of  kisses,  the  delight- 
ful words,  "It  is  a  boy,  a  fine  boy." 

My  poor  husband,  who  for  twelve  hours  had  not  left  me,  over- 
come with  fatigue  and  emotion,  was  crying  and  laughing  in  one 
corner  of  the  room. 

"Come,  nurse,  swaddle  him,  quick  now.  No  pins,  confound 
it  all,  strings,  I  will  have  strings.  What  ?  Give  me  the  child,  you 
don't  understand  anything  about  it." 

[212] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

And  the  good  doctor  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  had  dressed  my 
child. 

"He  looks  a  Colonel,  your  boy.  Put  him  into  the  cradle  with 
.  .  .  now  be  calm,  my  dear  patient  .  .  .  with  a  hot -water  bottle 
to  his  feet.  Not  too  much  fire,  especially  in  the  Colonel's  room. 
Now,  no  more  noise,  repose,  and  every  one  out  of  the  way." 

And  as  through  the  opening  of  the  door  which  was  just  ajar, 
Aunt  Ursula  whispered,  "Doctor,  let  me  come  in;  just  to  press 
her  hand,  doctor." 

"Confound  it!  every  one  must  be  off;  silence  and  quiet  are 
absolutely  necessary."  They  all  left. 

"Octave,"  continued  the  doctor,  "come  and  kiss  your  wife  now, 
and  make  an  end  of  it.  Good  little  woman,  she  has  been  very 
brave.  .  .  .  Octave,  come  and  kiss  your  wife,  and  be  quick  about 
it  if  you  don't  want  me  to  kiss  her  myself.  I  will  do  what  I  say," 
he  added,  threatening  to  make  good  his  words. 

Octave,  buried  in  his  child's  cradle,  did  not  hear. 

"Good,  now  he  is  going  to  suffocate  my  Colonel  for  me." 

My  husband  came  at  length.  He  held  out  his  hand  which  was 
quivering  with  emotion,  and  I  grasped  it  with  all  my  might.  If 
my  heart  at  that  moment  did  not  break  from  excess  of  feeling,  it 
was  because  God  no  doubt  knew  that  I  should  still  have  need 
of  it. 

You  know,  dear  Marie,  that  before  a  child  comes  we  love  each 
other  as  husband  and  wife,  but  we  love  each  other  on  our  OWE 
account,  while  afterward  we  love  each  other  on  his,  the  dear  love, 
who  with  his  tiny  hand  has  rivetted  the  chain  forever.  God, 
therefore,  allows  the  heart  to  grow  and  swell.  Mine  was  full; 
nevertheless,  my  baby  came  and  took  his  place  in  it.  Yet  nothing 
overflowed,  and  I  still  feel  that  there  is  room  for  mother  and  your- 
self. You  told  me,  and  truly,  that  this  would  be  a  new  life,  a  life 
of  deep  love  and  delightful  devotion.  All  my  past  existence  seems 
trivial  and  colorless  to  me,  and  I  perceive  that  I  am  beginning  to 
live.  I  am  as  proud  as  a  soldier  who  has  been  in  battle.  Wife  and 
mother,  those  words  are  our  epaulettes.  Grandmother  is  the  field- 
marshal's  baton. 

[2I3] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

How  sweet  I  shall  render  the  existence  of  my  two  loved  ones! 
How  I  shall  cherish  them!    I  am  wild,  I  weep,  I  should  like  to 
kiss  you.     I  am  afraid  I  am  too  happy. 

My  husband  is  really  good.  He  holds  the  child  with  such  pleas- 
ing awkwardness,  it  costs  him  such  efforts  to  lift  this  slight  burden. 
When  he  brings  it  to  me,  wrapped  in  blankets,  he  walks  with  slow 
and  careful  steps.  One  would  think  that  the  ground  was  going 
to  crumble  away  beneath  his  feet.  Then  he  places  the  little 
treasure  in  my  bed,  quite  close  to  me,  on  a  large  pillow.  We  deck 
Baby,  we  settle  him  comfortably,  and  if  after  many  attempts  we 
get  him  to  smile,  it  is  an  endless  joy.  Often  my  husband  and  I 
remain  in  the  presence  of  this  tiny  creature,  our  heads  resting  on 
our  hands.  We  silently  follow  the  hesitating  and  charming  move- 
ments of  his  little  rosy-nailed  hand  on  the  silk,  and  we  find  in  this 
so  deep  a  charm  that  it  needs  a  considerable  counter-attraction  to 
tear  us  away. 

We  have  most  amusing  discussions  on  the  shape  of  his  forehead 
and  the  color  of  his  eyes,  which  always  end  in  grand  projects  for 
his  future,  very  silly,  no  doubt,  but  so  fascinating. 

Octave  .wants  him  to  follow  a  diplomatic  career.  He  says  that 
he  has  the  eye  of  a  statesman  and  that  his  gestures,  though  few, 
are  full  of  meaning.  Poor,  dear  little  ambassador,  with  only  three 
hairs  on  your  head!  But  what  dear  hairs  they  are,  those  threads 
of  gold  curling  at  the  back  of  his  neck,  just  above  the  rosy  fold 
where  the  skin  is  so  fine  and  so  fresh  that  kisses  nestle  there  of 
themselves. 

The  whole  of  this  little  body  has  a  perfume  which  intoxicates 
me  and  makes  my  heart  leap.  What,  dear  friend,  are  the  invisible 
ties  which  bind  us  to  our  children  ?  Is  it  an  atom  of  our  own  soul, 
a  part  of  our  own  life,  which  animates  and  vivifies  them  ?  There 
must  be  something  of  the  kind,  for  I  can  read  amid  the  mists  of 
his  little  mind.  I  divine  his  wishes,  I  know  when  he  is  cold,  I  can 
tell  when  he  is  hungry. 

Do  you  know  the  most  delightful  moment?  It  is  when  after 
having  taken  his  evening  meal  and  gorged  himself  with  milk  like 
a  gluttonous  little  kitten,  he  falls  asleep  with  his  rosy  cheek  resting 

[214] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

on  my  arm.  His  limbs  gently  relax,  his  head  sinks  down  on  my 
breast,  his  eyes  close,  and  his  half-opened  mouth  continues  to  re- 
peat the  action  of  suckling. 

His  warm,  moist  breath  brushes  the  hand  that  is  supporting 
him.  Then  I  wrap  him  up  snugly  in  my  turned-up  skirt,  hide  his 
little  feet  under  his  clothes  and  watch  my  darling.  I  have  him 
there,  all  to  myself,  on  my  knees.  There  is  not  a  quiver  of  his 
being  that  escapes  me  or  that  does  not  vibrate  in  myself.  I  feel 
at  the  bottom  of  my  heart  a  mirror  that  reflects  them  all.  He  is 
still  part  of  me.  Is  it  not  my  milk  that  nourishes  him,  my  voice 
that  hushes  him  off  to  sleep,  my  hand  that  dresses  and  caresses, 
encourages  and  supports  him?  The  feeling  that  I  am  all  in  all 
for  him  further  adds  a  delicious  charm  of  protection  to  the  delight 
of  having  brought  him  into  the  world. 

When  I  think  that  there  are  women  who  pass  by  such  joys  with- 
out turning  their  heads.  The  fools! 

Yes,  the  present  is  delightful  and  I  am  drunk  with  happiness. 
There  is  also  the  future,  far  away  in  the  clouds.  I  often  think  of 
it,  and  I  do  not  know  why  I  shudder  at  the  approach  of  a 
storm. 

Madness!  I  shall  love  him  so  discreetly,  I  shall  render  the 
weight  of  my  affection  so  light  for  him,  that  why  should  he  wish 
to  separate  from  me?  Shall  I  not  in  time  become  his  friend? 
Shall  I  not  when  a  black  down  shadows  those  rosy  little  lips,  when 
the  bird,  feeling  its  wings  grown,  seeks  to  leave  the  nest,  shall  I  not 
be  able  to  bring  him  back  by  invisible  ties  to  the  arms  in  which  he 
now  is  sleeping?  Perhaps  at  that  wretched  moment  they  call  a 
man's  youth  you  will  forget  me,  my  little  darling!  Other  hands 
than  mine  perhaps  will  brush  the  hair  away  from  your  forehead 
at  twenty.  Alas!  other  lips,  pressed  burningly  where  mine  are 
now  pressed,  will  wipe  out  with  a  kiss  twenty  years  of  caresses. 
Yes,  but  when  you  return  from  this  intoxicating  and  fatiguing 
journey,  tired  and  exhausted,  you  will  soon  take  refuge  in  the 
arms  that  once  nursed  you,  you  will  rest  your  poor,  aching  head 
where  it  rests  now,  you  will  ask  me  to  wipe  away  your  tears  and 
to  make  you  forget  the  bruises  received  on  the  way,  and  I  shall 

[**$] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

give  you,  weeping  for  joy,  the  kiss  which  at  once  consoles  and 
fills  with  hope. 

But  I  see  that  I  am  writing  a  whole  volume,  dear  Marie.  I  will 
not  re-read  it  or  I  should  never  dare  to  send  it  to  you.  What 
would  you  have?  I  am  losing  my  head  a  little.  I  am  not  yet 
accustomed  to  all  this  happiness.  Yours  affectionately. 


CHAPTER  XXV 


is  yet  so  near 
morrow  spurs. 


FOUR  YEARS  LATER 

ES,  my  dear,  he  is  a  man  and  a  man  for  good 
and  all.  He  has  come  back  from  the  coun- 
try half  as  big  again  and  as  bold  as  a  lion. 
He  climbs  on  to  the  chairs,  stops  the  clocks 
and  sticks  his  hands  in  his  pockets  like  a 
grown-up  person. 

When  I  see  in  the  morning  in  the  ante- 
room my  baby's  little  shoes  standing  proudly 
beside  the  paternal  boots,  I  experience,  de- 
spite myself,  a  return  toward  that  past  which 
Yesterday  swaddling  clothes,  to-day  boots,  to- 
Ah!  how  the  happy  days  fly  by.  Already  four 
years  old.  I  can  scarcely  carry  him,  even  supposing  he  allowed 
me  to,  for  his  manly  dignity  is  ticklish.  He  passes  half  his  life 
armed  for  war,  his  pistols,  his  guns,  his  whips  and  his  swords  are 
all  over  the  place.  There  is  a  healthy  frankness  about  all  his 
doings  that  charms  me. 

Do  you  imagine  from  this  that  my  demon  no  longer  has  any 
good  in  him?  At  times  he  is  an  angel  and  freely  returns  the 
caresses  I  bestow  upon  him.  In  the  evening  after  dinner  he  gets 
down  into  my  armchair,  takes  my  head  in  his  hands  and  arranges 
my  hair  in  his  own  way.  His  fresh  little  mouth  travels  all  over 
my  face.  He  imprints  big  sounding  kisses  on  the  back  of  my 
neck,  which  makes  me  shudder  all  over.  We  have  endless  talks 
together.  "Why's"  come  in  showers,  and  all  these  "why's"  re- 
quire real  answers,  for  the  intelligence  of  children  is  above  all 
things  logical.  I  will  only  give  one  of  his  sayings  as  a  proof. 
His  grandmother  is  rather  unwell,  and  every  night  he  tacks  on 

[217] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

to  his  prayer  these  simple  words,  "Please  God  make  Granny  well, 
because  I  love  her  so."  But  for  greater  certainty  he  has  added 
on  his  own  account,  "You  know,  God,  Granny  who  lives  in  the 
Rue  Saint-Louis,  on  the  first  floor."  He  says  all  this  with  an  ex- 
pression of  simple  confidence  and  such  comic  seriousness,  the  little 
love.  You  understand,  it  is  to  spare  God  the  trouble  of  looking 
for  the  address. 

I  leave  you ;  I  hear  him  cough.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  has 
caught  cold,  but  I  think  he  has  been  looking  rather  depressed 
since  the  morning.  Do  not  laugh  at  me,  I  am  not  otherwise 
uneasy.  Yours  most  affectionately. 

Yesterday  there  was  a  consultation.  On  leaving  the  house  my 
old  doctor's  eyes  were  moist;  he  strove  to  hide  it,  but  I  saw  a 
tear.  My  child  must  be  very  ill  then  ?  The  thought  is  dreadful, 
dear.  They  seek  to  reassure  me,  but  I  tremble. 

The  night  has  not  brought  any  improvement.  Still  this  fever. 
If  you  could  see  the  state  of  the  pretty  little  body  we  used  to  ad- 
mire so.  I  will  not  think  of  what  God  may  have  in  store  for  me. 
Ice  has  been  ordered  to  be  put  to  his  head.  His  hair  had  to  be 
cut  off.  Poor  fair  little  curls  that  used  to  float  in  the  wind  as  he 
ran  after  his  hoop.  It  is  terrible.  I  have  dreadful  forebodings. 

My  child,  my  poor  child!  He  is  so  weak  that  not  a  word  comes 
now  from  his  pale  parched  lips.  His  large  eyes  that  still  shine  in 
the  depths  of  their  sockets,  smile  at  me  from  time  to  time,  but  this 
smile  is  so  gentle,  so  faint,  that  it  resembles  a  farewell.  A  fare- 
well! But  what  would  become  of  me  ? 

This  morning,  thinking  he  was  asleep,  I  could  not  restrain  a  sob. 
His  lips  opened,  and  he  said,  but  in  a  whisper  so  low  that  I  had  to 
put  my  ear  close  down  to  catch  it:  "You  do  love  me  then,  mam- 
ma?" 

Do  I  love  him  ?    I  should  die.  Yours  as  ever. 

NICE. 

They  have  brought  me  here  and  I  feel  no  better  for  it.  Every 
day  my  weakness  increases.  I  still  spit  blood.  Besides,  what  do 
they  seek  to  cure  me  of? 

[218] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

If  I  should  never  return  to  Paris,  you  will  find  in  my  wardrobe 
his  last  toys;  the  traces  of  his  little  fingers  are  still  visible  on 
them.  To  the  left  is  the  branch  of  the  blessed  box  that  used  to 
hang  at  his  bedside.  Let  your  hands  alone  touch  all  this. 
Burn  these  dear  relics,  this  poor  evidence  of  shattered  happiness. 
I  can  still  see  ...  Sobs  are  choking  me. 

Farewell,  dear  friend.  What  would  you  ?  I  built  too  high  on 
too  unstable  a  soil.  I  loved  one  object  too  well. 

Yours  from  my  heart. 


[219] 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

OLD  RECOLLECTIONS 

OVER  yourselves  with  fine  green 
leaves,  tall  trees  casting  your  peace- 
ful shade.  Steal  through  the  branches, 
bright  sunlight,  and  you,  studious 
promenaders,  contemplative  idlers, 
mammas  in  bright  toilettes,  gossip- 
ing nurses,  noisy  children,  and  hun- 
gry babies,  take  possession  of  your 
kingdom;  these  long  walks  belong  to  you. 

It  is  Sunday.  Joy  and  festivity.  The  gaufre  seller 
decks  his  shop  and  lights  his  stove.  The  white  cloth 
is  spread  on  the  table  and  piles  of  golden  cakes  attract 
the  customer. 

The  woman  who  lets  out  chairs  has  put  on  her  apron 
with  its  big  pockets  for  sous.     The  park  keeper,  my 
dear  little  children,  has  curled  his  moustache,  polished 
up  his  harmless  sword  and  put  on  his  best  uniform. 
See  how  bright  and  attractive  the  marionette  theatre 
looks  in  the  sunshine,  under  its  striped  covering. 
Sunday  requires  all  this  in  its  honor. 
Unhappy  are  those  to  whom  the  tall  trees  of  Luxem- 
bourg gardens  do  not  recall  one  of  those  recollections 
which  cling  to  the  heart  like  its  first  perfume  to  a  vase. 
I  was  a  General,  under  those  trees,  a  General  with  a 

[  220] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

plume  like  a  mourning  coach-horse,  and  armed  to  the 
teeth.  I  held  command  from  the  hut  of  the  newspaper 
vendor  to  the  kiosk  of  the  gaufre  seller.  No  false 
modesty,  my  authority  extended  to  the  basin  of  the 
fountain,  although  the  great  white  swans  rather  alarmed 
me.  Ambushes  behind  the  tree  trunks,  advanced  posts 
behind  the  nursemaids,  surprises,  fights  with  cold  steel, 
attacks  by  skirmishers,  dust,  encounters,  carnage  and 
no  bloodshed.  After  which  our  mammas  wiped  our 
foreheads,  rearranged  our  dishevelled  hair,  and  tore  us 
away  from  the  battle,  of  which  we  dreamed  all  night. 

Now,  as  I  pass  through  the  garden  with  its  army  of 
children  and  nurses,  leaning  on  my  stick  with  halting 
step,  how  I  regret  my  General's  cocked  hat,  my  paper 
plume,  my  wooden  sword  and  my  pistol.  My  pistol 
that  would  snap  caps  and  was  the  cause  of  my  rapid 
promotion. 

Disport  yourselves,  little  folks;  gossip,  plump  nurses, 
as  you  scold  your  soldiers.  Embroider  peaceably, 
young  mothers,  making  from  time  to  time  a  little  game 
of  your  neighbors  among  yourselves;  and  you,  reflec- 
tive idlers,  look  at  that  charming  picture — babies  mak- 
ing a  garden. 

Playing  in  the  sand,  a  game  as  old  as  the  world  and 
always  amusing.  Hillocks  built  up  in  a  line  with  little 
bits  of  wood  stuck  into  them,  represent  gardens  in  the 
walks  of  which  baby  gravely  places  his  little  uncertain 
feet.  What  would  he  not  give,  dear  little  man,  to  be 
able  to  complete  his  work  by  creating  a  pond  in  his 
park,  a  pond,  a  gutter,  three  drops  of  water? 

Further  on  the  sand  is  damper,  and  in  the  mountain 
[221] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

the  little  fingers  pierce  a  tunnel.  A  gigantic  work 
which  the  boot  of  a  passer-by  will  soon  destroy.  What 
passer-by  respects  a  baby's  mountain?  Hence  the 
young  rascal  avenges  himself.  See  that  gentleman  in 
the  brown  frock-coat,  who  is  reading  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  on  the  bench;  our  workers  have  piled 
up  hillocks  of  sand  and  dust  around  him,  the  skirts  of 
his  coat  have  already  lost  their  color. 

But  let  this  equipage  noisily  dashing  along  go  by. 
Four  horses,  two  bits  of  string,  and  a  fifth  horse  who  is 
the  driver.  That  is  all,  and  yet  one  fancies  one's  self 
in  a  postchaise.  How  many  places  has  one  not  visited 
by  nightfall  ? 

There  are  drivers  who  prefer  to  be  horses,  there  are 
horses  who  would  rather  be  drivers;  first  symptoms  of 
ambition. 

And  the  solitary  baby  who  slowly  draws  his  omnibus 
round  the  gaufre  seller,  eyeing  his  shop!  An  indefatig- 
able consumer,  but  a  poor 'paymaster. 

Do  you  see  down  there  under  the  plane-trees  that 
group  of  nurses,  a  herd  of  Burgundian  milch  kine,  and 
at  their  feet,  rolling  on  a  carpet,  all  those  little  rosy 
cheeked  philosophers  who  only  ask  God  for  a  little 
sunshine,  pure  milk,  and  quiet,  in  order  to  be  happy. 
Frequently  an  accident  disturbs  the  delightful  calm. 
The  Burgundian  who  mistrusted  matters  darts  forward. 
It  is  too  late. 

"The  course  of  a  river  is  not  to  be  checked,"  says 
Giboyer. 

Sometimes  the  disaster  is  still  more  serious,  and  one 
repairs  it  as  one  can;  but  the  philosopher  who  loves 

[  222  ] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

these  disasters  is  indignant  and  squalls,  swearing  to 
himself  to  begin  again. 

Those  little  folk  are  delightful;  we  love  children,  but 
this  affection  for  the  species  in  general  becomes  yet 
more  sweet  when  it  is  no  longer  a  question  of  a  baby, 
but  of  one's  own  baby. 

Bachelors  must  not  read  what  follows;  I  wish  to 
speak  to  the  family  circle.  Between  those  of  a  trade 
there  is  a  better  understanding. 

I  am  a  father,  my  dear  madame,  and  have  been  of 
course  the  rejoicing  papa  of  a  matchless  child.  From 
beneath  his  cap  there  escaped  a  fair  and  curly  tress  that 
was  our  delight,  and  when  I  touched  his  white  neck 
with  my  finger  he  broke  into  a  laugh  and  showed  me 
his  little  white  pearls,  as  he  clasped  my  head  in  his  two 
chubby  arms. 

His  first  tooth  was  an  event.  We  went  into  the 
light  the  better  to  see.  The  grandparents  looked 
through  their  glasses  at  the  little  white  spot,  and  I, 
with  outstretched  neck,  demonstrated,  explained  and 
proved.  And  all  at  once  I  ran  off  to  the  cellar  to  seek 
out  in  the  right  corner  a  bottle  of  the  best. 

My  son's  first  tooth.  We  spoke  of  his  career  during 
dinner,  and  at  dessert  grandmamma  gave  us  a  song. 

After  this  tooth  came  others,  and  with  them  tears  and 
pain,  but  then  when  they  were  all  there  how  proudly 
he  bit  into  his  slice  of  bread,  how  vigorously  he  attacked 
his  chop  in  order  to  eat  "like  papa." 

"Like  papa,"  do  you  remember  how  these  two  words 
warm  the  heart,  and  how  many  transgressions  they 
cause  to  be  forgiven. 

[223] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

My  great  happiness, — is  it  yours  too? — was  to  be 
present  at  my  darling's  awakening.  I  knew  the  time. 
I  would  gently  draw  aside  the  curtains  of  his  cradle  and 
watch  him  as  I  waited. 

I  usually  found  him  stretched  diagonally,  lost  in  the 
chaos  of  sheets  and  blankets,  his  legs  in  the  air,  his 
arms  crossed  above  his  head.  Often  his  plump  little 
hand  still  clutched  the  toy  that  had  helped  to  send  him 
off  to  sleep,  and  through  his  parted  lips  came  the  regu- 
lar murmur  of  his  soft  breathing.  The  warmth  of  his 
sleep  had  given  his  cheeks  the  tint  of  a  well-ripened 
peach.  His  skin  was  warm,  and  the  perspiration  of 
the  night  glittered  on  his  forehead  in  little  imperceptible 
pearls. 

Soon  his  hand  would  make  a  movement;  his  foot 
pushed  away  the  blanket,  his  whole  body  stirred,  he 
rubbed  an  eye,  stretched  out  his  arms,  and  then  his 
look  from  under  his  scarcely  raised  eyelids  would  rest 
on  me. 

He  would  smile  at  me,  murmuring  softly,  so  softly 
that  I  would  hold  my  breath  to  seize  all  the  shades  of 
his  music. 

"Dood  mornin',  papa." 

"  Good  morning,  my  little  man ;  have  you  slept  well  ?  " 

We  held  out  our  arms  to  each  other  and  embraced 
like  old  friends. 

Then  the  talking  would  begin.  He  chatted  as  the 
lark  would  sing  to  the  rising  sun.  Endless  stories. 

He  would  tell  me  his  dreams,  asking  after  each  sen- 
tence for  "his  nice,  warm  bread  and  milk,  with  plenty 
of  sugar."  And  when  his  breakfast  came  up,  what  an 

[224] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

outburst  of  laughter,  what  joy  as  he  drew  himself  up 
to  reach  it;  then  his  eye  would  glitter  with  a  tear  in 
the  corner,  and  the  chatter  begin  again. 

At  other  times  he  would  come  and  surprise  me  in 
bed.  I  would  pretend  to  be  asleep,  and  he  would  pull 
my  beard  and  shout  in  my  ear.  I  feigned  great  alarm 
and  threatened  to  be  avenged.  From  this  arose  rights 
among  the  counterpanes,  entrenchments  behind  the 
pillows.  In  sign  of  victory  I  would  tickle  him,  and  then 
he  shuddered,  giving  vent  to  the  frank  and  involun- 
tary outburst  of  laughter  of  happy  childhood.  He 
buried  his  head  between  his  two  shoulders  like  a  tor- 
toise withdrawing  into  his  shell,  and  threatened  me 
with  his  plump  rosy  foot.  The  skin  of  his  heel  was  so 
delicate  that  a  young  girl's  cheek  would  have  been 
proud  of  it.  How  many  kisses  I  would  cover  those 
dear  little  feet  with  when  I  warmed  his  long  night- 
dress before  the  fire. 

I  had  been  forbidden  to  undress  him,  because  it  had 
been  found  that  I  entangled  the  knots  instead  of  undo- 
ing them. 

All  this  was  charming,  but  when  it  was  necessary  to 
act  rigorously  and  check  the  romping  that  was  going 
too  far,  he  would  slowly  drop  his  eyelids,  while  with 
dilated  nostrils  and  trembling  lips  he  tried  to  keep  back 
the  big  tear  glittering  beneath  his  eyelid. 

What  courage  was  not  necessary  in  order  to  refrain 
from  calming  with  a  kiss  the  storm  on  the  point  of 
bursting,  from  consoling  the  little  swollen  heart,  from 
drying  the  tear  that  was  overflowing  and  about  to  be- 
come a  flood. 

i5  [225] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

A  child's  expression  is  then  so  touching,  there  is  so 
much  grief  in  a  warm  tear  slowly  falling,  in  a  little 
contracted  face,  a  little  heaving  breast. 

All  this  is  long  past.  Yet  years  have  gone  by  with- 
out effacing  these  loved  recollections;  and  now  that  my 
baby  is  thirty  years  old  and  has  a  heavy  moustache, 
when  he  holds  out  his  large  hand  and  says  in  his  bass 
voice,  "Good  morning,  father,"  it  still  seems  to  me 
that  an  echo  repeats  afar  off  the  dear  words  of  old, 
"Dood  mornin',  papa." 


[226] 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


THE  LITTLE  BOOTS 

'N  the  morning  when  I  left  my  room,  I 
saw  placed  in  line  before  the  door  his 
boots  and  mine.  His  were  little 
laced-up  boots  rather  out  of  shape, 
and  dulled  by  the  rough  usage  to 
which  he  subjects  them.  The  sole  of 
the  left  boot  was  worn  thin,  and  a 
little  hole  was  threatening  at  the  toe 
of  the  right.  The  laces,  worn  and  slack,  hung  to  the 
right  and  left.  Swellings  in  the  leather  marked  the 
places  of  his  toes,  and  the  accustomed  movements  of  his 
little  foot  had  left  their  traces  in  the  shape  of  creases, 
slight  or  deep. 

Why  have  I  remembered  all  this?  I  really  do  not 
know,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  I  can  still  see  the  boots 
of  the  dear  little  one  placed  there  on  the  mat  beside  my 
own,  two  grains  of  sand  by  two  paving  stones,  a  tom- 
tit beside  an  elephant.  They  were  his  every-day  boots, 
his  playfellows,  those  with  which  he  ascended  sand- 
hills and  explored  puddles.  They  were  devoted  to 
him,  and  shared  his  existence  so  closely  that  something 
of  himself  was  met  with  again  in  them.  I  should  have 
,  recognized  them  among  a  thousand ;  they  had  an 
especial  physiognomy  about  them ;  it  seemed  to  me  that 

[227] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

an  invisible  tie  attached  them  to  him,  and  I  could  not 
look  at  their  undecided  shape,  their  comic  and  charm- 
ing grace,  without  recalling  their  little  master,  and  ac- 
knowledging to  myself  that  they  resembled  him. 

Everything  belonging  to  a  baby  becomes  a  bit  baby- 
ish itself,  and  assumes  that  expression  of  unstudied  and 
simple  grace  peculiar  to  a  child. 

Beside  these  laughing,  gay,  good-humored  little 
boots,  only  asking  leave  to  run  about  the  country,  my 
own  seemed  monstrous,  heavy,  coarse,  ridiculous,  with 
their  heels.  From  their  heavy  and  disabused  air  one 
felt  that  for  them  life  was  a  grave  matter,  its  journeys 
long,  and  the  burden  borne  quite  a  serious  one. 

The  contrast  was  striking,  and  the  lesson  deep.  I 
would  softly  approach  these  little  boots  in  order  not  to 
wake  the  little  man  who  was  still  asleep  in  the  adjoining 
room;  I  felt  them,  I  turned  them  over,  I  looked  at  them 
on  all  sides,  and  I  found  a  delightful  smile  rise  to  my 
lips.  Never  did  the  old  violet-scented  glove  that  lay 
for  so  long  in  the  inmost  recess  of  my  drawer  procure 
me  so  sweet  an  emotion. 

Paternal  love  is  no  trifle ;  it  has  its  follies  and  weak- 
nesses, it  is  puerile  and  sublime,  it  can  neither  be 
analyzed  nor  explained,  it  is  simply  felt,  and  I  yielded 
myself  to  it,  with  delight. 

Let  the  papa  without  weakness  cast  the  first  stone  at 
me;  the  mammas  will  avenge  me. 

Remember  that  this  little  laced  boot,  with  a  hole  in 
the  toe,  reminded  me  of  his  plump  little  foot,  and  that 
a  thousand  recollections  were  connected  with  that  dear 
trifle. 

[228] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

I  recalled  him,  dear  child,  as  when  I  cut  his  toe  nails, 
wriggling  about,  pulling  at  my  beard,  and  laughing  in 
spite  of  himself,  for  he  was  ticklish. 

I  recalled  him  as  when  of  an  evening  in  front  of  a 
good  fire,  I  pulled  off  his  little  socks.  What  a  treat. 

I  would  say  "one,  two."  And  he,  clad  in  his  long 
nightgown,  his  hands  lost  in  the  sleeves,  would  wait 
with  glittering  eyes,  and  ready  to  break  into  a  fit  of 
laughter  for  the  "three." 

At  last  after  a  thousand  delays,  a  thousand  little 
teasings  that  excited  his  impatience  and  allowed  me  to 
snatch  five  or  six  kisses,  I  said  "three." 

The  sock  flew  away.  Then  there  was  a  wild  joy;  he 
would  throw  himself  back  on  my  arm,  waving  his  bare 
legs  in  the  air.  From  his  open  mouth,  in  which  two 
rows  of  shining  little  pearls  could  be  distinguished, 
welled  forth  a  burst  of  ringing  laughter. 

His  mother,  who,  however,  laughed  too,  would  say 
the  next  minute : 

"  Come,  baby,  come,  my  little  angel,  you  will  get  cold. 
.  .  .  But  leave  off.  .  .  .  Will  you  have  done,  you  little 
demon?" 

She  wanted  to  scold,  but  she  could  not  be  serious  at 
the  sight  of  his  fair-haired  head,  and  flushed,  smiling, 
happy  face,  thrown  back  on  my  knee. 

She  would  look  at  me,  and  say: 

"He  is  unbearable.    Good  gracious!  what  a  child." 

But  I  understood  that  this  meant: 

"Look  how  handsome,  sturdy  and  healthy  he  is,  our 
baby,  our  little  man,  our  son." 

And  indeed  he  was  adorable;  at  least  I  thought  so. 
[229] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

I  had  the  wisdom — I  can  say  it  now  that  my  hair  is 
white — not  to  let  one  of  those  happy  moments  pass 
without  amply  profiting  by  it,  and  really  I  did  well. 
Pity  the  fathers  who  do  not  know  how  to  be  papas  as 
often  as  possible,  who  do  not  know  how  to  roll  on  the 
carpet,  play  at  being  a  horse,  pretend  to  be  the  great 
wolf,  undress  their  baby,  imitate  the  barking  of  the 
dog,  and  the  roar  of  the  lion,  bite  whole  mouthfuls  with- 
out hurting,  and  hide  behind  armchairs  so  as  to  let 
themselves  be  seen. 

Pity  sincerely  these  unfortunates.  It  is  not  only 
pleasant  child's  play  that  they  neglect,  but  true  pleas- 
ure, delightful  enjoyment,  the  scraps  of  that  happiness 
which  is  greatly  calumniated  and  accused  of  not  exist- 
ing because  we  expect  it  to  fall  from  heaven  in  a  solid 
mass  when  it  lies  at  our  feet  in  fine  powder.  Let  us 
pick  up  the  fragments,  and  not  grumble  too  much; 
every  day  brings  us  with  its  bread  its  ration  of  happi- 
ness. 

Let  us  walk  slowly  and  look  down  on  the  ground, 
searching  around  us  and  seeking  in  the  corners;  it  is 
there  that  Providence  has  its  hiding-places. 

I  have  always  laughed  at  those  people  who  rush 
through  life  at  full  speed,  with  dilated  nostrils,  uneasy 
eyes,  and  glance  rivetted  on  the  horizon.  It  seems  as 
though  the  present  scorched  their  feet,  and  when  you 
say  to  them,  "Stop  a  moment,  alight,  take  a  glass  of 
this  good  old  wine,  let  us  chat  a  little,  laugh  a  little, 
kiss  your  child." 

"Impossible,"  they  reply;  "I  am  expected  over 
there.  There  I  shall  converse,  there  I  shall  drink  de- 

[230] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

licious  wine,  there  I  shall  give  expansion  to  paternal 
love,  there  I  shall  be  happy!" 

And  when  they  do  get  "  there,"  breathless  and  tired 
out,  and  claim  the  price  of  their  fatigue,  the  present, 
laughing  behind  its  spectacles,  says,  "Monsieur,  the 
bank  is  closed." 

The  future  promises,  it  is  the  present  that  pays,  and 
one  should  have  a  good  understanding  with  the  one 
that  keeps  the  keys  of  the  safe. 

Why  fancy  that  you  are  a  dupe  of  Providence  ? 

Do  you  think  that  Providence  has  the  time  to  serve 
up  to  each  of  you  perfect  happiness,  already  dressed  on 
a  golden  plate,  and  to  play  music  during  your  repast 
into  the  bargain?  Yet  that  is  what  a  great  many 
people  would  like. 

We  must  be  reasonable,  tuck  up  our  sleeves  and  look 
after  our  cooking  ourselves,  and  not  insist  that  heaven 
should  put  itself  out  of  the  way  to  skim  our  soup. 

I  used  to  muse  on  all  this  of  an  evening  when  my 
baby  was  hi  my  arms,  and  his  moist,  regular  breathing 
fanned  my  hand.  I  thought  of  the  happy  moments  he 
had  already  given  me,  and  was  grateful  to  him  for 
them. 

"How  easy  it  is,"  I  said  to  myself,  "to  be  happy, 
and  what  a  singular  fancy  that  is  of  going  as  far  as 
China  in  quest  of  amusement. 

My  wife  was  of  my  opinion,  and  we  would  sit  for 
hours  by  the  fire  talking  of  what  we  felt. 

"You,  do  you  see,  dear?  love  otherwise  than  I  do," 
she  often  said  to  me.  "Papas  calculate  more.  Their 
love  requires  a  return.  They  do  not  really  love  their 

[231] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

child  till  the  day  on  which  their  self-esteem  as  its  father 
is  flattered.  There  is  something  of  ownership  in  it. 
You  can  analyze  paternal  love,  discover  its  causes,  say 
1 1  love  my  child  because  he  is  so  and  so,  or  so  and  so.' 
With  the  mother  such  analysis  is  impossible,  she  does 
not  love  her  child  because  he  is  handsome  or  ugly,  be- 
cause he  does  or  does  not  resemble  her,  has  or  has  not 
her  tastes.  She  loves  him  because  she  can  not  help  it, 
it  is  a  necessity.  Maternal  love  is  an  innate  sentiment 
in  woman.  Paternal  love  is,  in  man,  the  result  of  cir- 
cumstances. In  her  love  is  an  instinct,  in  him  a  calcu- 
lation, of  which,  it  is  true,  he  is  unconscious,  but,  in 
short,  it  is  the  outcome  of  several  other  feelings." 

•'That  is  all  very  fine;  go  on,"  I  said.  "We  have 
neither  heart  nor  bowels,  we  are  fearful  savages.  What 
you  say  is  monstrous."  And  I  stirred  the  logs  furiously 
with  the  tongs. 

Yet  my  wife  was  right,  I  acknowledged  to  myself. 
When  a  child  comes  into  the  world  the  affection  of  the 
father  is  not  to  be  compared  to  that  of  the  mother. 
With  her  it  is  love  already.  It  seems  that  she  has 
known  him  for  a  long  time,  her  pretty  darling.  At  his 
first  cry  it  might  be  said  that  she  recognized  him.  She 
seems  to  say;  "It  is  he."  She  takes  him  without  the 
slightest  embarrassment,  her  movements  are  natural, 
she  shows  no  awkwardness,  and  in  her  two  twining 
arms  the  baby  finds  a  place  to  fit  him,  and  falls  asleep 
contentedly  in  the  nest  created  for  him.  It  would  be 
thought  that  woman  serves  a  mysterious  apprenticeship 
to  maternity.  Man,  on  the  other  hand,  is  greatly 
troubled  by  the  birth  of  a  child.  The  first  wail  of  the 

[232] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

little  creature  stirs  him,  but  in  this  emotion  there  is 
more  astonishment  than  love.  His  affection  is  not  yet 
born.  His  heart  requires  to  reflect  and  to  become 
accustomed  to  these  fondnesses  so  new  to  him. 

There  is  an  apprenticeship  to  be  served  to  the  busi- 
ness of  a  father.  There  is  none  to  that  of  a  mother. 

If  the  father  is  clumsy  morally  in  his  love  for  his  first- 
born, is  must  be  acknowledged  that  he  is  so  physically 
in  the  manifestation  of  his  fondness. 

It  is  only  tremblingly,  and  with  contortions  and 
efforts-,  that  he  lifts  the  slight  burden.  He  is  afraid  of 
smashing  the  youngster,  who  knows  this,  and  thence 
bawls  with  all  the  force  of  his  lungs.  He  expands  more 
strength,  poor  man,  in  lifting  up  his  child  than  he  would 
in  bursting  a  door  open.  If  he  kisses  him,  his  beard 
pricks  him;  if  he  touches  him,  his  big  fingers  cause 
him  some  disaster.  He  has  the  air  of  a  bear  threading 
a  needle. 

And  yet  it  must  be  won,  the  affection  of  this  poor 
father,  who,  at  the  outset,  meets  nothing  but  misadven- 
tures; he  must  be  captivated,  captured,  made  to  have 
a  taste  for  the  business,  and  not  be  left  too  long  to  play 
the  part  of  a  recruit. 

Nature  has  provided  for  it,  and  the  father  rises  to  the 
rank  of  corporal  the  day  the  baby  lisps  his  first  syl- 
lables. 

It  is  very  sweet,  the  first  lisping  utterance  of  a  child, 
and  admirably  chosen  to  move — the  "pa-pa"  the  little 
creature  first  murmurs.  It  is  strange  that  the  first  word 
of  a  child  should  express  precisely  the  deepest  and 
tenderest  sentiment  of  all  ? 

[233] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

Is  it  not  touching  to  see  that  the  little  creature  finds 
of  himself  the  word  that  is  sure  to  touch  him  of  whom 
he  stands  most  in  need;  the  word  that  means,  "I  am 
yours,  love  me,  give  me  a  place  in  your  heart,  open 
your  arms  to  me ;  you  see  I  do  not  know  much  as  yet,  I 
have  only  just  arrived,  but,  already,  I  think  of  you,  I  am 
one  of  the  family,  I  shall  eat  at  your  table,  and  bear 
your  name,  pa-pa,  pa-pa." 

He  has  discovered  at  once  the  most  delicate  of  flat- 
teries, the  sweetest  of  caresses.  He  enters  on  life  by  a 
master  stroke. 

Ah!  the  dear  little  love!  "Pa-pa,  pa-pa,"  I  still 
hear  his  faint,  hesitating  voice,  I  can  still  see  his  two 
coral  lips  open  and  close.  We  were  all  in  a  circle 
around  him,  kneeling  down  to  be  on  a  level  with  him. 
They  kept  saying  to  him,  "Say  it  again,  dear,  say  it 
again.  Where  is  papa?"  And  he,  amused  by  all 
these  people  about  him,  stretched  out  his  arms,  and 
turned  his  eyes  toward  me. 

I  kissed  him  heartily,  and  felt  that  two  big  tears 
hindered  me  from  speaking. 

From  that  moment  I  was  a  papa  in  earnest.  I  was 
christened. 


[234] 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

BABIES  AND  PAPAS 

[HEN  the  baby  reaches  three  or  four 
years  of  age,  when  his  sex  shows  itself 
in  his  actions,  his  tastes  and  his  eyes, 
when  he  smashes  his  wooden  horses, 
cuts  open  his  drums,  blows  trumpets, 
breaks  the  castors  off  the  furniture, 
and  evinces  a  decided  hostility  to 
crockery;  in  a  word,  when  he  is  a 
man,  it  is  then  that  the  affection  of  a  father  for  his  son 
becomes  love.  He  feels  himself  invaded  by  a  need  of  a 
special  fondness,  of  which  the  sweetest  recollections  of 
his  past  life  can  give  no  idea.  A  deep  sentiment  en- 
velopes his  heart,  the  countless  roots  of  which  sink  into 
it  in  all  directions.  Defects  or  qualities  penetrate  and 
feed  on  this  sentiment.  Thus,  we  find  in  paternal  love 
all  the  weaknesses  and  all  the  greatnesses  of  humanity. 
Vanity,  abnegation,  pride,  and  disinterestedness  are 
united  together,  and  man  in  his  entirety  appears  in  the 
papa. 

It  is  on  the  day  which  the  child  becomes  a  mirror  in 
which  you  recognize  your  features,  that  the  heart  is 
moved  and  awakens.  Existence  becomes  duplicated, 
you  are  no  longer  one,  but  one  and  a  half;  you  feel 
your  importance  increase,  and,  in  the  future  of  the 

[235] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

little  creature  who  belongs  to  you,  you  reconstruct  your 
own  past;  you  resuscitate,  and  are  born  again  in  him. 
You  say  to  yourself:  "I  will  spare  him  such  and  such  a 
vexation  which  I  had  to  suffer,  I  will  clear  from  his 
path  such  and  such  a  stone  over  which  I  stumbled,  I 
will  make  him  happy,  and  he  shall  owe  all  to  me;  he 
shall  be,  thanks  to  me,  full  of  talents  and  attractions." 
You  give  him,  in  advance,  all  that  you  did  not  get 
yourself,  and  in  his  future  arrange  laurels  for  a  little 
crown  for  your  own  brows. 

Human  weakness,  no  doubt;  but  what  matter,  pro- 
vided the  sentiment  that  gives  birth  to  this  weakness  is 
the  strongest  and  purest  of  all?  What  matter  if  a 
limpid  stream  springs  up  between  two  paving  stones? 
Are  we  to  be  blamed  for  being  generous  out  of  egotism, 
and  for  devoting  ourselves  to  others  for  reasons  of  per- 
sonal enjoyment  ? 

Thus,  in  the  father,  vanity  is  the  leading  string.  Say 
to  any  father:  "Good  heavens!  how  like  you  he  is!" 
The  poor  man  may  hesitate  at  saying  yes,  but  I  defy 
him  not  to  smile.  He  will  say,  "  Perhaps.  .  .  .  Do  you 
think  so?  ...  Well,  perhaps  so,  side  face." 

And  do  not  you  be  mistaken;  if  he  does  so,  it  is  that 
you  may  reply  in  astonishment:  "Why,  the  child  is 
your  very  image." 

He  is  pleased,  and  that  is  easily  explained;  for  is  not 
this  likeness  a  visible  tie  between  him  and  his  work? 
Is  it  not  his  signature,  his  trade-mark,  his  title-deed, 
and,  as  it  were,  the  sanction  of  his  rights  ? 

To  this  physical  resemblance  there  soon  succeeds  a 
moral  likeness,  charming  in  quite  another  way.  You 

[236] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

are  moved  to  tears  when  you  recognize  the  first  efforts 
of  this  little  intelligence  to  grasp  your  ideas.  Without 
check  or  examination  it  accepts  and  feeds  on  them.  By 
degrees  the  child  shares  your  tastes,  your  habits,  your 
ways.  He  assumes  a  deep  voice  to  be  like  papa,  asks 
for  your  braces,  sighs  before  your  boots,  and  sits  down 
with  admiration  on  your  hat.  He  protects  his  mamma 
when  he  goes  out  with  her,  and  scolds  the  dog,  although 
he  is  very  much  afraid  of  him;  all  to  be  like  papa. 
Have  you  caught  him  at  meals  with  his  large  observant 
eyes  fixed  on  you,  studying  your  face  with  open  mouth 
and  spoon  in  hand,  and  imitating  his  model  with  an 
expression  of  astonishment  and  respect.  Listen  to  his 
long  gossips,  wandering  as  his  little  brain;  does  he 
not  say: 

"When  I  am  big  like  papa  I  shall  have  a  moustache 
and  a  stick  like  him,  and  I  shall  not  be  afraid  in  the 
dark,  because  it  is  silly  to  be  afraid  in  the  dark  when 
you  are  big,  and  I  shall  say  'damn  it,'  for  I  shall  then 
be  grown  up." 

"Baby,  what  did  you  say,  sir?" 

"I  said  just  as  papa  does." 

What  would  you  ?  He  is  a  faithful  mirror.  You  are 
for  him  an  ideal,  a  model,  the  type  of  all  that  is  great 
and  strong,  handsome  and  intelligent. 

Often  he  makes  mistakes,  the  little  dear,  but  his 
error  is  all  the  more  delicious  in  its  sincerity,  and  you 
feel  all  the  more  unworthy  of  such  frank  admiration. 
You  console  yourself  for  your  own  imperfections  in  re- 
flecting that  he  is  not  conscious  of  them. 

The  defects  of  children  are  almost  always  borrowed 
[237! 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

from  their  father;  they  are  the  consequences  of  a  too 
literal  copy.  Provide,  then,  against  them.  Yes,  no 
doubt,  but  I  ask  you  what  strength  of  mind  is  not 
needed  by  a  poor  man  to  undeceive  his  baby,  to  de- 
stroy, with  a  word,  his  innocent  confidence,  by  saying 
to  him:  "My  child,  I  am  not  perfect,  and  I  have  faults 
to  be  avoided  ?  " 

This  species  of  devotion  on  the  part  of  the  baby  for 
his  father  reminds  me  of  the  charming  remark  of  one 
of  my  little  friends.  Crossing  the  road,  the  little  fellow 
caught  sight  of  a  policeman.  He  examined  him  with 
respect,  and  then  turning  to  me,  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection, said,  with  an  air  of  conviction:  "Papa  is 
stronger  than  all  the  policemen,  isn't  he?" 

If  I  had  answered  "No,"  our  intimacy  would  have 
been  broken  off  short. 

Was  it  not  charming?  One  can  truly  say,  "Like 
baby,  like  papa."  Our  life  is  the  threshold  of  his.  It 
is  with  our  eyes  that  he  has  first  seen. 

Profit,  young  fathers,  by  the  first  moments  of  can- 
dor on  the  part  of  your  dear  baby,  seek  to  enter  his 
heart  when  this  little  heart  opens,  and  establish  your- 
self in  it  so  thoroughly,  that  at  the  moment  when  the 
child  is  able  to  judge  you,  he  will  love  you  too  well  to 
be  severe  or  to  cease  loving.  Win  his  affection,  it  is 
worth  the  trouble. 

To  be  loved  all  your  life  by  a  being  you  love — that 
is  the  problem  to  be  solved,  and  toward  the  solution  of 
which  all  your  efforts  should  be  directed.  To  make 
yourself  loved,  is  to  store  up  treasures  of  happiness  for 
the  winter.  Each  year  will  take  away  a  scrap  of  your 

[238] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

life,  contract  the  circle  of  interests  and  pleasures  in 
which  you  live;  your  mind  by  degrees  will  lose  its 
vigor,  and  ask  for  rest,  and  as  you  live  less  and  less 
by  the  mind,  you  will  live  more  and  more  by  the  heart. 
The  affection  of  others  which  was  only  a  pleasant  whet 
will  become  a  necessary  food,  and  whatever  you  may 
have  been,  statesmen  or  artists,  soldiers  or  bankers, 
when  your  heads  are  white,  you  will  no  longer  be  any- 
thing but  fathers. 

But  filial  love  is  not  born  all  at  once,  nor  is  it  neces- 
sary it  should  be.  The  voice  of  nature  is  a  voice  rather 
poetical  than  truthful.  The  affection  of  children  is 
earned  and  deserved;  it  is  a  consequence,  not  a  cause, 
and  gratitude  is  its  commencement.  At  any  cost,  there- 
fore, your  baby  must  be  made  grateful.  Do  not 
reckon  that  he  will  be  grateful  to  you  for  your  solici- 
tude, your  dreams  for  his  future,  the  cost  of  his  nursing, 
and  the  splendid  dowry  that  you  are  amassing  for  him; 
such  gratitude  would  require  from  his  little  brain  too 
complicated  a  calculation,  besides  social  ideas  as  yet 
unknown  to  him.  He  will  not  be  thankful  to  you  for 
the  extreme  fondness  you  have  for  him;  do  not  be  as- 
tonished at  it,  and  do  not  cry  out  at  his  ingratitude. 
You  must  first  make  him  understand  your  affection; 
he  must  appreciate  and  judge  it  before  responding  to 
it;  he  must  know  his  notes  before  he  can  play  tunes. 

The  little  man's  gratitude  will  at  first  be  nothing  but 
a  simple,  egotistical  and  natural  calculation.  If  you 
have  made  him  laugh,  if  you  have  amused  him,  he  will 
want  you  to  begin  again,  he  will  hold  out  his  little  arms 
to  you,  crying:  "Do  it  again."  And  the  recollection 

[239] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

of  the  pleasure  you  have  given  him  becoming  impressed 
upon  his  mind,  he  will  soon  say  to  himself:  "No  one 
amuses  me  so  well  as  papa;  it  is  he  who  tosses  me 
into  the  air,  plays  at  hide-and-seek  with  me  and  tells 
me  tales."  So,  by  degrees,  gratitude  will  be  born  in 
him,  as  thanks  spring  to  the  lips  of  him  who  is  made 
happy. 

Therefore,  learn  the  art  of  amusing  your  child,  imi- 
tate the  crowing  of  the  cock,  and  gambol  on  the  carpet, 
answer  his  thousand  impossible  questions,  which  are 
the  echo  of  his  endless  dreams,  and  let  yourself  be 
pulled  by  the  beard  to  imitate  a  horse.  All  this  is  kind- 
ness, but  also  cleverness,  and  good  King  Henry  IV  did 
not  belie  his  skilful  policy  by  walking  on  all  fours  on 
his  carpet  with  his  children  on  his  back. 

In  this  way,  no  doubt,  your  paternal  authority  will 
lose  something  of  its  austere  prestige,  but  will  gain  the 
deep  and  lasting  influence  that  affection  gives.  Your 
baby  will  fear  you  less  but  will  love  you  more.  Where 
is  the  harm. 

Do  not  be  afraid  of  anything;  become  his  comrade, 
in  order  to  have  the  right  of  remaining  his  friend.  Hide 
your  paternal  superiority  as  the  commissary  of  police 
does  his  sash.  Ask  with  kindness  for  that  which  you 
might  rightly  insist  upon  having,  and  await  everything 
from  his  heart  if  you  have  known  how  to  touch  it.  Care- 
fully avoid  such  ugly  words  as  discipline,  passive  obe- 
dience and  command;  let  his  submission  be  gentle  to 
him,  and  his  obedience  resemble  kindness.  Renounce 
the  stupid  pleasure  of  imposing  your  fancies  upon  him, 
and  of  giving  orders  to  prove  your  infallibility. 

[240] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Children  have  a  keenness  of  judgment,  and  a  deli- 
cacy of  impression  which  would  not  be  imagined,  unless 
one  has  studied  them.  Justice  and  equity  are  easily 
born  in  their  minds,  for  they  possess,  above  all  things, 
positive  logic.  Profit  by  all  this.  There  are  unjust  and 
harsh  words  which  remain  graven  on  a  child's  heart, 
and  which  he  remembers  all  his  life.  Reflect  that,  in 
your  baby,  there  is  a  man  whose  affection  will  cheer 
your  old  age ;  therefore  respect  him  so  that  he  may  re- 
spect you;  and  be  sure  that  there  is  not  a  single  seed 
sown  in  this  little  heart  which  will  not  sooner  or  later 
bear  fruit. 

But  there  are,  you  will  say,  unmanageable  children, 
rebels  from  the  cradle.  Are  you  sure  that  the  first  word 
they  heard  in  their  lives  has  not  been  the  cause  of  their 
evil  propensities?  Where  there  has  been  rebellion, 
there  has  been  clumsy  pressure;  for  I  will  not  believe 
in  natural  vice.  Among  evil  instincts  there  is  always  a 
good  one,  of  which  an  arm  can  be  made  to  combat  the 
others.  This  requires,  I  know,  extreme  kindness,  per- 
fect tact,  and  unlimited  confidence,  but  the  reward  is 
sweet.  I  think,  therefore,  in  conclusion,  that  a  father's 
first  kiss,  his  first  look,  his  first  caresses,  have  an  im- 
mense influence  on  a  child's  life.  To  love  is  a  great 
deal.  To  know  how  to  love  is  everything. 

Even  were  one  not  a  father,  it  is  impossible  to  pass 
by  the  dear  little  ones  without  feeling  touched,  and 
without  loving  them.  Muddy  and  ragged,  or  carefully 
decked  out;  running  in  the  roadway  and  rolling  in  the 
dust,  or  playing  at  skipping  rope  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Tuileries;  dabbling  among  the  ducklings,  or  building 
16  [  241  ] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

hills  of  sand  beside  well-dressed  mammas — babies  are 
charming.  In  both  classes  there  is  the  same  grace,  the 
same  unembarrassed  movements,  the  same  comical  seri- 
ousness, the  same  carelessness  as  to  the  effect  created, 
in  short,  the  same  charm;  the  charm  that  is  called  child- 
hood, which  one  can  not  understand  without  loving — 
which  one  finds  just  the  same  throughout  nature,  from 
the  opening  flower  and  the  dawning  day  to  the  child 
entering  upon  life. 

A  baby  is  not  an  imperfect  being,  an  unfinished 
sketch — he  is  a  man.  Watch  him  closely,  follow  every 
one  of  his  movements;  they  will  reveal  to  you  a  logical 
sequence  of  ideas,  a  marvellous  power  of  imagination, 
such  as  will  not  again  be  found  at  any  period  of  life. 
There  is  more  real  poetry  in  the  brain  of  these  dear 
loves  than  in  twenty  epics.  They  are  surprised  and 
unskilled,  no  doubt;  but  nothing  equals  the  vigor  of 
these  minds,  unexperienced,  fresh,  simple,  sensible  of 
the  slightest  impressions,  which  make  their  way  through 
the  midst  of  the  unknown. 

What  immense  labor  is  gone  through  by  them  in  a 
few  months!  To  notice  noises,  classify  them,  under- 
stand that  some  of  these  sounds  are  words,  and  that 
these  words  are  thoughts;  to  find  out  of  themselves 
alone  the  meaning  of  everything,  and  distinguish  the 
true  from  the  false,  the  real  from  the  imaginary;  to 
correct,  by  observation,  the  errors  of  their  too  ardent 
imagination;  to  unravel  a  chaos,  and  during  this  gi- 
gantic task  to  render  the  tongue  supple  and  strengthen 
the  staggering  little  legs,  in  short,  to  become  a  man. 
If  ever  there  was  a  curious  and  touching  sight  it  is  that 

[242] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

of  this  little  creature  setting  out  upon  the  conquest  of 
the  world.  As  yet  he  knows  neither  doubt  nor  fear,  and 
opens  his  heart  fully.  There  is  something  of  Don 
Quixote  about  a  baby.  He  is  as  comic  as  the  Knight, 
but  he  has  also  a  sublime  side. 

Do  not  laugh  too  much  at  the  hesitations,  the  count- 
less gropings,  the  preposterous  follies  of  this  virgin 
mind,  which  a  butterfly  lifts  to  the  clouds,  to  which 
grains  of  sand  are  mountains,  which  understands  the 
twittering  of  birds,  ascribes  thoughts  to  flowers,  and 
souls  to  dolls,  which  believes  in  far-off  realms,  where 
the  trees  are  sugar,  the  fields  chocolate,  and  the  rivers 
syrup,  for  which  Punch  and  Mother  Hubbard  are  real 
and  powerful  individuals,  a  mind  which  peoples  silence 
and  vivifies  night.  Do  not  laugh  at  his  love;  his  life 
is  a  dream,  and  his  mistakes  poetry. 

This  touching  poetry  which  you  find  in  the  infancy  of 
man  you  also  find  in  the  infancy  of  nations.  It  is  the 
same.  In  both  cases  there  is  the  same  necessity  of 
idealization,  the  same  tendency  to  personify  the  un- 
known. And  it  may  be  said  that  between  Punch  and 
Jupiter,  Mother  Hubbard  and  Venus,  there  is  only  a 
hair's  breadth. 


[243] 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

HIS   FIRST   BREECHES 

HE  great  desire  in  a  child  is  to  become 
a  man.  But  the  first  symptom  of  vir- 
ility, the  first  serious  step  taken  in 
life,  is  marked  by  the  assumption  of 
breeches. 

This  first  breeching  is  an  event  that 
papa  desires  and  mamma  dreads.  It 
seems  to  the  mother  that  it  is  the  be- 
ginning of  her  being  forsaken.  She  looks  with  tearful 
eyes  at  the  petticoat  laid  aside  for  ever,  and  murmurs 
to  herself,  "Infancy  is  over  then?  My  part  will  soon 
become  a  small  one.  He  will  have  fresh  tastes,  new 
wishes;  he  is  no  longer  only  myself,  his  personality  is 
asserting  itself;  he  is  some  one — a  boy." 

The  father,  on  the  contrary,  is  delighted.  He  laughs 
in  his  moustache  to  see  the  little  arching  calves  peep- 
ing out  beneath  the  trousers;  he  feels  the  little  body, 
the  outline  of  which  can  be  clearly  made  out  under  the 
new  garment,  and  says  to  himself;  "How  well  he  is 
put  together,  the  rascal.  He  will  have  broad  shoulders 
and  strong  loins  like  myself.  How  firmly  his  little  feet 
tread  the  ground."  Papa  would  like  to  see  him  in  jack- 
boots; for  a  trifle  he  would  buy  him  spurs.  He  begins 
to  see  himself  in  this  little  one  sprung  from  him;  he 

[244] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

looks  at  him  in  a  fresh  light,  and,  for  the  first  time,  he 
finds  a  great  charm  in  calling  him  "my  boy." 

As  to  the  baby,  he  is  intoxicated,  proud,  triumphant, 
although  somewhat  embarrassed  as  to  his  arms  and 
legs,  and,  be  it  said,  without  any  wish  to  offend  him, 
greatly  resembling  those  little  poodles  we  see  freshly 
shaven  on  the  approach  of  summer.  What  greatly  dis- 
turbed the  poor  little  fellow  is  past.  How  many  men  of 
position  are  there  who  do  not  experience  similar  incon- 
venience. He  knows  very  well  that  breeches,  like  nobil- 
ity, render  certain  things  incumbent  on  their  possessor, 
that  he  must  now  assume  new  ways,  new  gestures,  a 
new  tone  of  voice;  he  begins  to  scan  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye  the  movements  of  his  papa,  who  is  by  no 
means  ill  pleased  at  this:  he  clumsily  essays  a  mascu- 
line gesture  or  two;  and  this  struggle  between  his  past 
and  his  present  gives  him  for  some  time  the  most  comi- 
cal air  in  the  world.  His  petticoats  haunt  him,  and 
really  he  is  angry  that  it  is  so. 

Dear  first  pair  of  breeches!  I  love  you,  because  you 
are  a  faithful  friend,  and  I  encounter  at  every  step  in 
life  you  and  your  tram  of  sweet  sensations.  Are  you  not 
the  living  image  of  the  latest  illusion  caressed  by  our 
vanity?  You,  young  officer,  who  still  measure  your 
moustaches  in  the  glass,  and  who  have  just  assumed  for 
the  first  time  the  epaulette  and  the  gold  belt,  how  did 
you  feel  when  you  went  downstairs  and  heard  the  scab- 
bard of  your  sabre  go  clink-clank  on  the  steps,  when 
with  your  cap  on  one  side  and  your  arm  akimbo  you 
found  yourself  in  the  street,  and,  an  irresistible  impulse 
urging  you  on,  you  gazed  at  your  figure  reflected  in 

[245] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

the  chemist's  bottles?  Will  you  dare  to  say  that  you 
did  not  halt  before  those  bottles  ?  First  pair  of  breeches, 
lieutenant. 

You  will  find  them  again,  these  breeches,  when  you 
are  promoted  to  be  Captain  and  are  decorated.  And 
later  on,  when,  an  old  veteran  with  a  gray  moustache, 
you  take  a  fair  companion  to  rejuvenate  you,  you  will 
again  put  them  on;  but  this  time  the  dear  creature  will 
help  you  to  wear  them. 

And  the  day  when  you  will  no  longer  have  anything 
more  to  do  with  them,  alas!  that  day  you  will  be  very 
low,  for  one's  whole  life  is  wrapped  up  in  this  precious 
garment.  Existence  is  nothing  more  than  putting  on 
our  first  pair  of  breeches,  taking  them  off,  putting  them 
on  again,  and  dying  with  eyes  fixed  on  them. 

Is  it  the  truth  that  most  of  our  joys  have  no  more 
serious  origin  than  those  of  children?  Are  we  then  so 
simple?  Ah!  yes,  my  dear  sir,  we  are  simple  to  this 
degree,  that  we  do  not  think  we  are.  We  never  quite 
get  rid  of  our  swaddling  clothes;  do  you  see,  there  is 
always  a  little  bit  sticking  out?  There  is  a  baby  in 
every  one  of  us,  or,  rather,  we  are  only  babies  grown 
big. 

See  the  young  barrister  walking  up  and  down  the 
lobby  of  the  courts.  He  is  freshly  shaven :  in  the  folds 
of  his  new  gown  he  hides  a  pile  of  documents,  and  on 
his  head,  in  which  a  world  of  thought  is  stirring,  is  a 
fine  advocate's  coif,  which  he  bought  yesterday,  and 
which  this  morning  he  coquettishly  crushed  in  with  a 
blow  from  his  fist  before  putting  it  on.  This  young 
fellow  is  happy;  amid  the  general  din  he  can  distin- 

[246] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

guish  the  echo  of  his  own  footsteps,  and  the  ring  of  his 
boot-heels  sounds  to  him  like  the  great  bell  of  Notre 
Dame.  In  a  few  minutes  he  will  find  an  excuse  for  de- 
scending the  great  staircase,  and  crossing  the  courtyard 
in  costume.  You  may  be  sure  that  he  will  not  disrobe 
except  to  go  to  dinner.  What  joy  hi  these  five  yards  of 
black  stuff;  what  happiness  in  this  ugly  bit  of  cloth 
stretched  over  stiff  cardboard ! 

First  pair  of  breeches — I  think  I  recognize  you. 

And  you,  Madame,  with  what  happiness  do  you  re- 
new each  season  the  enjoyment  caused  by  new  clothes  ? 
Do  not  say,  I  beg  of  you,  that  such  enjoyments  are 
secondary  ones,  for  their  influence  is  positive  upon 
your  nature  and  your  character.  Why,  I  ask  you,  did 
you  find  so  much  captivating  logic,  so  much  persua- 
sive eloquence,  in  the  sermon  of  Father  Paul?  Why 
did  you  weep  on  quitting  the  church,  and  embrace  your 
husband  as  soon  as  you  got  home?  You  know  better 
than  I  do,  Madame,  that  it  was  because  on  that  day  you 
had  put  on  for  the  first  time  that  little  yellow  bonnet, 
which  is  a  gem,  I  acknowledge,  and  which  makes  you 
look  twice  as  pretty.  These  impressions  can  scarcely 
be  explained,  but  they  are  invincible.  There  may  be 
a  trifle  of  childishness  in  it  all,  you  will  admit,  but 
it  is  a  childishness  that  can  not  be  got  rid  of. 

As  a  proof  of  it,  the  other  day,  going  to  St.  Thomas's 
to  hear  Father  Nicholas,  who  is  one  of  our  shining 
lights,  you  experienced  totally  different  sentiments;  a 
general  feeling  of  discontent  and  doubt  and  nervous 
irritability  at  every  sentence  of  the  preacher.  Your 
soul  did  not  soar  heavenward  with  the  same  unre- 

[247] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

served  confidence;  you  left  St.  Thomas's  with  your 
head  hot  and  your  feet  cold;  and  you  so  far  forgot 
yourself  as  to  say,  as  you  got  into  your  carriage,  that 
Father  Nicholas  was  a  Gallican  devoid  of  eloquence. 
Your  coachman  heard  it.  And,  finally,  on  reaching 
home  you  thought  your  drawing-room  too  small  and 
your  husband  growing  too  fat.  Why,  I  again  ask  you, 
this  string  of  vexatious  impressions  ?  If  you  remember 
rightly,  dear  Madame,  you  wore  for  the  first  time  the 
day  before  yesterday  that  horrible  little  violet  bonnet, 
which  is  such  a  disgusting  failure.  First  pair  of 
breeches,  dear  Madame. 

Would  you  like  a  final  example?  Observe  your 
husband.  Yesterday  he  went  out  in  a  bad  temper — he 
had  breakfasted  badly — and  lo!  in  the  evening,  at  a 
quarter  to  seven,  he  came  home  from  the  Chamber  joy- 
ful and  well-pleased,  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  good- 
humor  in  his  eye.  He  kissed  you  on  the  forehead  with 
a  certain  unconstraint,  threw  a  number  of  pamphlets 
and  papers  with  an  easy  gesture  on  the  side-table,  sat 
down  to  table,  found  the  soup  delicious,  and  ate  joy- 
ously. "What  is  the  matter  with  my  husband?"  you 
asked  yourself.  ...  I  will  explain.  Your  husband 
spoke  yesterday  for  the  first  time  in  the  building,  you 
know.  He  said — the  sitting  was  a  noisy  one,  the  Left 
were  threshing  out  some  infernal  questions — he  said, 
during  the  height  of  the  uproar,  and  rapping  with  his 
paper-knife  on  his  desk:  "But  we  can  not  hear!"  And 
as  these  words  were  received  on  all  sides  with  universal 
approbation  and  cries  of  "Hear,  hear!"  he  gave  his 
thoughts  a  more  parliamentary  expression  by  adding: 

[248] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

"The  voice  of  the  honorable  gentleman  who  is  speaking 
does  not  reach  us."  It  was  not  much  certainly,  and  the 
amendment  may  have  been  carried  all  the  same,  but 
after  all  it  was  a  step;  a  triumph,  to  tell  the  truth, 
since  your  husband  has  from  day  to  day  put  off  the  de- 
livery of  his  maiden  speech.  Behold  a  happy  deputy, 
a  deputy  who  has  just — put  on  his  first  pair  of  breeches. 

What  matter  whether  the  reason  be  a  serious  or  a 
futile  one,  if  your  blood  flows  faster,  if  you  feel  happier, 
if  you  are  proud  of  yourself?  To  win  a  great  victory 
or  put  on  a  new  bonnet,  what  matters  it  if  this  new 
bonnet  gives  you  the  same  joy  as  a  laurel  crown  ? 

Therefore  do  not  laugh  too  much  at  baby  if  his  first 
pair  of  breeches  intoxicates  him,  if,  when  he  wears 
them,  he  thinks  his  shadow  longer  and  the  trees  less 
high.  He  is  beginning  his  career  as  a  man,  dear  child, 
nothing  more. 

How  many  things  have  not  people  been  proud  of 
since  the  beginning  of  the  world?  They  were  proud 
of  their  noses  under  Francis  the  First,  of  their  perukes 
under  Louis  XIV,  and  later  on  of  their  appetites  and 
stoutness.  A  man  is  proud  of  his  wife,  his  idleness,  his 
wit,  his  stupidity,  the  beard  on  his  chin,  the  cravat 
round  his  neck,  the  hump  on  his  back. 


[249] 


CHAPTER  XXX 


COUNTRY  CHILDREN 

LOVE  the  baby  that  runs  about  under 
the  trees  of  the  Tuileries;  I  love  the 
pretty  little  fair-haired  girls  with  nice 
white  stockings  and  unmanageable 
crinolines.  I  like  to  watch  the  tiny 
damsels  decked  out  like  reliquaries, 
and  already  affecting  coquettish  and 
lackadaisical  ways.  It  seems  to  me 
that  in  each  of  them  I  can  see  thousands  of  charming 
faults  already  peeping  forth.  But  all  these  miniature 
men  and  women,  exchanging  postage  stamps  and  chat- 
tering of  dress,  have  something  of  the  effect  of  adorable 
monstrosities  on  me. 

I  like  them  as  I  like  a  bunch  of  grapes  in  February, 
or  a  dish  of  green  peas  in  December. 

In  the  babies'  kingdom,  my  friend,  my  favorite  is 
the  country  baby,  running  about  in  the  dust  on  the 
highway  barefoot  and  ragged,  and  searching  for  black- 
birds' and  chaffinches'  nests  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
woods.  I  love  his  great  black  wondering  eye,  which 
watches  you  fixedly  from  between  two  locks  of  un- 
combed hair,  his  firm  flesh  bronzed  by  the  sun,  his 
swarthy  forehead,  hidden  by  his  hair,  his  smudged  face 
and  his  picturesque  breeches  kept  from  falling  off  by 

[250] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

the  paternal  braces  fastened  to  a  metal  button,  the  gift 
of  a  gendarme. 

Ah!  what  fine  breeches;  not  very  long  in  the  legs, 
but,  then,  what  room  everywhere  else!  He  could  hide 
away  entirely  in  this  immense  space  which  allows  a 
shirt-tail,  escaping  through  a  slit,  to  wave  like  a  flag. 
These  breeches  preserve  a  remembrance  of  all  the  gar- 
ments of  the  family;  here  is  a  piece  of  maternal  petti- 
coat, here  a  fragment  of  yellow  waistcoat,  here  a  scrap 
of  blue  handkerchief;  the  whole  sewn  with  a  thread 
that  presents  the  twofold  advantage  of  being  seen  from 
a  distance,  and  of  not  breaking. 

But  under  these  patched  clothes  you  can  make  out  a 
sturdy  little  figure;  and,  besides,  what  matters  the 
clothes?  Country  babies  are  not  coquettish;  and  when 
the  coach  comes  down  the  hill  with  jingling  bells  and  they 
rush  after  it,  stumbling  over  their  neighbors,  tumbling 
with  them  in  the  dust,  and  rolling  into  the  ditches,  what 
would  all  these  dear  little  gamins  do  in  silk  stockings  ? 

I  love  them  thus  because  they  are  wild,  taking  alarm, 
and  fleeing  away  at  your  approach  like  the  young  rab- 
bits you  surprise  in  the  morning  playing  among  the 
wild  thyme.  You  must  have  recourse  to  a  thousand 
subterfuges  in  order  to  triumph  over  their  alarm  and 
gain  their  confidence.  But  if  at  length,  thanks  to  your 
prudence,  you  find  yourself  in  their  company,  at  the 
outset  play  ceases,  shouts  and  noise  die  away ;  the  little 
group  remain  motionless,  scratching  their  heads,  and 
all  their  uneasy  eyes  look  fixedly  at  you.  This  is  the 
difficult  moment. 

A  sharp  word,  a  stern  gesture,  may  cause  an  eternal 
[251] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

misunderstanding  with  them,  just  as  a  kind  remark,  a 
smile,  a  caress  will  soon  accomplish  their  conquest. 
And  this  conquest  is  worth  the  trouble,  believe  me. 

One  of  my  chief  methods  of  winning  them  was  as  fol- 
lows: I  used  to  take  my  watch  out  of  my  pocket  and 
look  at  it  attentively.  Then  I  would  see  my  little  people 
stretch  their  necks,  open  their  eyes,  and  come  a  step 
nearer;  and  it  would  often  happen  that  the  chickens, 
ducklings,  and  geese,  which  were  loitering  close  by  in 
the  grass,  imitated  their  comrades  and  drew  near 
too.  I  then  would  put  my  watch  to  my  ear  and  smile 
like  a  man  having  a  secret  whispered  to  him.  In  pres- 
ence of  this  prodigy  my  youngsters  could  no  longer 
restrain  themselves,  and  would  exchange  among  them- 
selves those  keen,  simple,  timid,  mocking  looks,  which 
must  have  been  seen  to  be  understood.  They  advanced 
this  time  in  earnest,  and  if  I  offered  to  let  the  boldest 
listen,  by  holding  out  my  watch  to  him,  he  would  draw 
back  alarmed,  although  smiling,  while  the  band  would 
break  into  an  outburst  of  joy;  the  ducklings  flapping 
their  wings,  the  white  geese  cackling,  and  the  chickens 
going  chk,  chk.  The  game  was  won. 

How  many  times  have  I  not  played  this  little  farce, 
seated  under  a  willow  on  the  banks  of  my  little  stream, 
which  ripples  over  the  white  stones,  while  the  reeds 
bend  tremblingly.  The  children  would  crowd  round 
me  to  hear  the  watch,  and  soon  questions  broke  forth  in 
chorus  to  an  accompaniment  of  laughter.  They  in- 
spected my  gaiters,  rummaged  in  my  pockets  and  leant 
against  my  knees,  the  ducklings  glided  under  my  feet, 
and  the  big  geese  tickled  my  back. 

[252] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

How  enjoyable  it  is  not  to  alarm  creatures  that 
tremble  at  everything.  I  would  not  move  for  fear  of 
interrupting  their  joy,  and  was  like  a  child  who  is  build- 
ing a  house  of  cards  and  who  has  got  to  the  third  story. 
But  I  marked  all  these  happy  little  faces  standing  out 
against  the  blue  sky;  I  watched  the  rays  of  the  sun 
stealing  into  the  tangles  of  their  fair  hair,  or  spreading 
in  a  patch  of  gold  on  their  little  brown  necks;  I  fol- 
lowed their  gestures  full  of  awkwardness  and  grace;  I 
sat  down  on  the  grass  to  be  the  nearer  to  them;  and 
if  an  unfortunate  chicken  came  to  grief,  between  two 
daisies,  I  quickly  stretched  out  my  arm  and  replaced  it 
on  its  legs. 

I  assure  you  that  they  were  all  grateful.  If  one  loves 
these  little  people  at  all,  there  is  one  thing  that  strikes 
you  when  you  watch  them  closely.  Ducklings  dabbling 
along  the  edge  of  the  water  or  turning  head  over  heels 
in  their  feeding  trough,  young  shoots  thrusting  forth 
their  tender  little  leaves  above  ground,  little  chickens 
running  along  before  their  mother  hen,  or  little  men 
staggering  among  the  grass — all  these  little  creatures 
resemble  one  another.  They  are  the  babies  of  the  great 
mother  Nature;  they  have  common  laws,  a  common 
physiognomy;  they  have  something  inexplicable  about 
them  which  is  at  once  comic  and  graceful,  awkward 
and  tender,  and  which  makes  them  loved  at  once; 
they  are  relations,  friends,  comrades,  under  the  same 
flag.  This  pink  and  white  flag,  let  us  salute  it  as  it 
passes,  old  graybeards  that  we  are.  It  is  blessed,  and 
is  called  childhood. 

All  babies  are  round,  yielding,  weak,  timid,  and  soft 
[253] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

to  the  touch  as  a  handful  of  wadding.  Protected  by 
cushions  of  good  rosy  flesh  or  by  a  coating  of  soft  down, 
they  go  rolling,  staggering,  dragging  along  their  little 
unaccustomed  feet,  shaking  in  the  air  their  plump 
hands  or  featherless  wing.  See  them  stretched  hap- 
hazard in  the  sun  without  distinction  of  species,  swell- 
ing themselves  with  milk  or  meal,  and  dare  to  say  that 
they  are  not  alike.  Who  knows  whether  all  these  chil- 
dren of  nature  have  not  a  common  point  of  departure, 
if  they  are  not  brothers  of  the  same  origin  ? 

Since  men  with  green  spectacles  have  existed,  they 
have  amused  themselves  with  ticketing  the  creatures  of 
this  world.  These  latter  are  arranged,  divided  into 
categories  and  classified,  as  though  by  a  careful  apothe- 
cary who  wants  everything  about  him  hi  order.  It  is 
no  slight  matter  to  stow  away  each  one  in  the  drawer 
that  suits  him,  and  I  have  heard  that  certain  subjects 
still  remain  on  the  counter  owing  to  their  belonging  to 
two  show-cases  at  once. 

And  what  proves  to  me,  indeed,  that  these  cases 
exist?  What  is  there  to  assure  me  that  the  whole 
world  is  not  one  family,  the  members  of  which  only 
differ  by  trifles  which  we  are  pleased  to  regard  as  every- 
thing? 

Have  you  fully  established  the  fact  of  these  drawers 
and  compartments?  Have  you  seen  the  bars  of  these 
imaginary  cages  in  which  you  imprison  kingdoms  and 
species?  Are  there  not  infinite  varieties  which  escape 
your  analysis,  and  are,  as  it  were,  the  unknown  links, 
uniting  all  the  particles  of  the  animated  world  ?  Why 
say,  "For  these  eternity,  for  those  annihilation?" 

[254] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Why  say,  "This  is  the  slave,  that  is  the  sovereign?" 
Strange  boldness  for  men  who  are  ignorant  of  almost 
everything ! 

Man,  animal  or  plant,  the  creature  vibrates,  suffers  or 
enjoys — exists  and  encloses  in  itself  the  trace  of  the 
same  mystery.  What  assures  me  that  this  mystery, 
which  is  everywhere  the  same,  is  not  the  sign  of  a  simi- 
lar relationship,  is  not  the  sign  of  a  great  law  of  which 
we  are  ignorant  ? 

I  am  dreaming,  you  will  say.  And  what  does  science 
do  herself  when  she  reaches  that  supreme  point  at 
which  magnifying  glasses  become  obscure  and  com- 
passes powerless?  It  dreams,  too;  it  supposes.  Let 
us,  too,  suppose  that  the  tree  is  a  man,  rough  skinned, 
dreamy  and  silent,  who  loves,  too,  after  his  fashion  and 
vibrates  to  his  very  roots  when  some  evening  a  warm 
breeze,  laden  with  the  scents  of  the  plain,  blows  through 
his  green  locks  and  overwhelms  him  with  kisses.  No, 
I  do  not  accept  the  hypothesis  of  a  world  made  for  us. 
Childish  pride,  which  would  be  ridiculous  did  not  its 
very  simplicity  lend  it  something  poetic,  alone  inspires 
it.  Man  is  but  one  of  the  links  of  an  immense  chain, 
of  the  two  ends  of  which  we  are  ignorant. 

Is  it  not  consoling  to  fancy  that  we  are  not  an  isolated 
power  to  which  the  remainder  of  the  world  serves  as  a 
pedestal,  that  one  is  not  a  licensed  destroyer,  a  poor, 
fragile  tyrant,  whom  arbitrary  decrees  protect,  but  a 
necessary  note  of  an  infinite  harmony?  To  fancy 
that  the  law  of  life  is  the  same  in  the  immensity  of  space 
and  irradiates  worlds  as  it  irradiates  cities  and  as  it 
irradiates  ant-hills.  To  fancy  that  each  vibration  in 

[2553 


GTJSTAVE  DROZ 

ourselves  is  the  echo  of  another  vibration.  To  fancy  a 
sole  principle,  a  primordial  axiom,  to  think  the  universe 
envelops  us  as  a  mother  clasps  her  child  in  her  two 
arms;  and  say  to  one's  self,  "I  belong  to  it  and  it  to 
me;  it  would  cease  to  be  without  me.  I  should  not 
exist  without  it."  To  see,  in  short,  only  the  divine 
unity  of  laws,  which  could  not  be  non-existent,  where 
others  have  only  seen  a  ruling  fancy  or  an  individual 
caprice. 

It  is  a  dream.  Perhaps  so,  but  I  have  often  dreamed 
it  when  watching  the  village  children  rolling  on  the 
fresh  grass  among  the  ducklings. 


[256] 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

AUTUMN 

O  you  know  the  autumn,  dear  reader, 
autumn  away  in  the  country  with  its 
squalls,  its  long  gusts,  its  yellow 
leaves  whirling  in  the  distance,  its 
sodden  paths,  its  fine  sunsets,  pale  as 
an  invalid's  smile,  its  pools  of  water 
in  the  roadway;  do  you  know  all 
these  ?  If  you  have  seen  all  these  they 
are  certainly  not  indifferent  to  you.  One  either  detests 
or  else  loves  them. 

I  am  of  the  number  of  those  who  love  them,  and  I 
would  give  two  summers  for  a  single  autumn.  I  adore 
the  big  blazing  fires;  I  like  to  take  refuge  in  the  chim- 
ney corner  with  my  dog  between  my  wet  gaiters.  I 
like  to  watch  the  tall  flames  licking  the  old  ironwork 
and  lighting  up  the  black  depths.  You  hear  the  wind 
whistling  in  the  stable,  the  great  door  creak,  the  dog 
pull  at  his  chain  and  howl,  and,  despite  the  noise  of 
the  forest  trees  which  are  groaning  and  bending  close 
by,  you  can  make  out  the  lugubrious  cawings  of  a 
flock  of  rooks  struggling  against  the  storm.  The  rain 
beats  against  the  little  panes,  and,  stretching  your  legs 
toward  the  fire,  you  think  of  those  without.  You 
think  of  the  sailors,  of  the  old  doctor  driving  his  little 
17  [  257  ] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

cabriolet,  the  hood  of  which  sways  to  and  fro  as  the 
wheels  sink  into  the  ruts,  and  Cocotte  neighs  in  the 
teeth  of  the  wind.  You  think  of  the  two  gendarmes, 
with  the  rain  streaming  from  their  cocked  hats;  you 
see  them,  chilled  and  soaked,  making  their  way  along 
the  path  among  the  vineyards,  bent  almost  double  in 
the  saddle,  their  horses  almost  covered  with  their  long 
blue  cloaks.  You  think  of  the  belated  sportsman 
hastening  across  the  heath,  pursued  by  the  wind  like  a 
criminal  by  justice,  and  whistling  to  his  dog,  poor 
beast,  who  is  splashing  through  the  marshland.  Un- 
fortunate doctor,  unfortunate  gendarmes,  unfortunate 
sportsman ! 

And  all  at  once  the  door  opens  and  Baby  rushes  in 
exclaiming:  "Papa,  dinner  is  ready."  Poor  doctor! 
poor  gendarmes! 

"What  is  there  for  dinner?" 

The  cloth  was  as  white  as  snow  in  December,  the 
plate  glittered  in  the  lamplight,  the  steam  from  the 
soup  rose  up  under  the  lamp-shade,  veiling  the  flame 
and  spreading  an  appetizing  smell  of  cabbage.  Poor 
doctor!  poor  gendarmes! 

The  doors  were  well  closed,  the  curtains  carefully 
drawn.  Baby  hoisted  himself  on  to  his  tall  chair  and 
stretched  out  his  neck  for  his  napkin  to  be  tied  round 
it,  exclaiming  at  the  same  time  with  his  hands  in  the 
air:  "Nice  cabbage  soup."  And,  smiling  to  myself,  I 
said:  "The  youngster  has  all  my  tastes." 

Mamma  soon  came,  and  cheerfully  pulling  off  her 
tight  gloves:  "There,  sir,  I  think,  is  something  that 
you  are  very  fond  of,"  she  said  to  me. 

[258] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

It  was  a  pheasant  day,  and  instinctively  I  turned 
round  a  little  to  catch  a  glimpse  on  the  sideboard  of 
a  dusty  bottle  of  my  old  Chambertin.  Pheasant  and 
Chambertin!  Providence  created  them  for  one  an- 
other and  my  wife  has  never  separated  them. 

"Ah!  my  children,  how  comfortable  you  are  here," 
said  I,  and  every  one  burst  out  laughing.  Poor  gen- 
darmes! poor  doctor! 

Yes,  yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  the  autumn,  and  my  dar- 
ling boy  liked  it  as  well  as  I  did,  not  only  on  account  of 
the  pleasure  there  is  in  gathering  round  a  fine  large 
fire,  but  also  on  account  of  the  squalls  themselves,  the 
wind  and  the  dead  leaves.  There  is  a  charm  in  braving 
them.  How  many  times  we  have  both  gone  out  for  a 
walk  through  the  country  despite  cold  and  threatening 
clouds.  We  were  wrapped  up  and  shod  with  thick 
boots;  I  took  his  hand  and  we  started  off  at  haphazard. 
He  was  five  years  old  then  and  trotted  along  like  a 
little  man.  Heavens!  it  is  five-and-twenty  years  ago. 
We  went  up  the  narrow  lane  strewn  with  damp  black 
leaves;  the  tall  gray  poplars  stripped  of  their  foliage 
allowed  a  view  of  the  horizon,  and  we  could  see  in  the 
distance,  under  a  violet  sky  streaked  with  cold  and 
yellowish  bands,  the  low  thatched  roofs  and  the  red 
chimneys  from  which  issued  little  bluish  clouds  blown 
away  by  the  wind.  Baby  jumped  for  joy,  holding  with 
his  hand  his  hat  which  threatened  to  fly  off,  and  looking 
at  me  with  eyes  glittering  through  tears  brought  into 
them  by  the  breeze.  His  cheeks  were  red  with  cold, 
and  quite  at  the  tip  of  his  nose  hung  ready  to  drop  a 
small  transparent  pearl.  But  he  was  happy,  and  we 

[259] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

skirted  the  wet  meadows  overflowed  by  the  swollen 
river.  No  more  reeds,  no  more  water  lilies,  no  more 
flowers  on  the  banks.  Some  cows,  up  to  mid-leg  in 
damp  herbage,  were  grazing  quietly. 

At  the  bottom  of  a  ditch,  near  a  big  willow  trunk,  two 
little  girls  were  huddled  together  under  a  big  cloak 
wrapped  about  them.  They  were  watching  their  cows, 
their  half  bare  feet  in  split  wooden  shoes  and  their  two 
little  chilled  faces  under  the  large  hood.  From  time 
to  time  large  puddles  of  water  in  which  the  pale  sky 
was  reflected  barred  the  way,  and  we  remained  for  a 
moment  beside  these  miniature  lakes,  rippling  beneath 
the  north  wind,  to  see  the  leaves  float  on  them.  They 
were  the  last.  We  watched  them  detach  themselves 
from  the  tops  of  the  tall  trees,  whirl  through  the  air 
and  settle  in  the  puddles.  I  took  my  little  boy  in  my 
arms  and  we  went  through  them  as  we  could.  At  the 
boundaries  of  the  brown  and  stubble  fields  was  an  over- 
turned plough  or  an  abandoned  harrow.  The  stripped 
vines  were  level  with  the  ground,  and  their  damp  and 
knotty  stakes  were  gathered  in  large  piles. 

I  remember  that  one  day  in  one  of  these  autumnal 
walks,  as  we  gained  the  top  of  the  hill  by  a  broken 
road  which  skirts  the  heath  and  leads  to  the  old  bridge, 
the  wind  suddenly  began  to  blow  furiously.  My  dar- 
ling, overwhelmed  by  it,  caught  hold  of  my  leg  and 
sheltered  himself  in  the  skirt  of  my  coat.  My  dog,  for 
his  part,  stiffening  his  four  legs,  with  his  tail  between  the 
hind  ones  and  his  ears  waving  in  the  wind,  looked  up  at 
me  too.  I  turned,  the  horizon  was  as  gloomy  as  the 
interior  of  a  church.  Huge  black  clouds  were  sweep- 

[260] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

ing  toward  us,  and  the  trees  were  bending  and  groan- 
ing on  every  side  under  the  torrents  of  rain  driven 
before  the  squall.  I  only  had  time  to  catch  up  my 
little  man,  who  was  crying  with  fright,  and  to  run  and 
squeeze  myself  against  a  hedge  which  was  somewhat 
protected  by  the  old  willows.  I  opened  my  umbrella, 
crouched  down  behind  it,  and,  unbuttoning  my  big 
coat,  stuffed  Baby  inside.  He  clung  closely  to  me. 
My  dog  placed  himself  between  my  legs,  and  Baby, 
thus  sheltered  by  his  two  friends,  began  to  smile  from 
the  depths  of  his  hiding-place.  I  looked  at  him  and 
said: 

"Well,  little  man,  are  you  all  right?" 

"Yes,  dear  papa." 

I  felt  his  two  arms  clasp  round  my  waist — I  was  much 
thinner  than  I  am  now — and  I  saw  that  he  was  grateful 
to  me  for  acting  as  a  roof  to  him.  Through  the  open- 
ing he  stretched  out  his  little  lips  and  I  bent  mine 
down. 

"Is  it  still  raining  outside,  papa?" 

"It  will  soon  be  over." 

"Already,  I  am  so  comfortable  inside  you." 

How  all  this  stays  in  your  heart.  It  is  perhaps  silly 
to  relate  these  little  joys,  but  how  sweet  it  is  to  recall 
them. 

We  reached  home  as  muddy  as  two  water-dogs  and 
we  were  well  scolded.  But  when  evening  had  come 
and  Baby  was  in  bed  and  I  went  to  kiss  him  and  tickle 
him  a  little,  as  was  our  custom,  he  put  his  two  little 
arms  round  my  neck  and  whispered:  "When  it  rains 
we  will  go  again,  eh?" 

[261] 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

HE  WOULD  HAVE  BEEN  FORTY  NOW 

'HEN  you  have  seen  your  child  born, 
have  watched  his  first  steps  in  life, 
have  noted  him  smile  and  weep, 
have  heard  him  call  you  papa  as  he 
stretches  out  his  little  arms  to  you, 
you  think  that  you  have  become 
acquainted  with  all  the  joys  of  pater- 
nity, and,  as  though  satiated  with 
these  daily  joys  that  are  under  your  hand,  you  already 
begin  to  picture  those  of  the  morrow.  You  rush  ahead, 
and  explore  the  future;  you  are  impatient,  and  gulp 
down  present  happiness  in  long  draughts,  instead  of 
tasting  it  drop  by  drop.  But  Baby's  illness  suffices  to 
restore  you  to  reason. 

To  realize  the  strength  of  the  ties  that  bind  you  to 
him,  it  is  necessary  to  have  feared  to  see  them  broken ; 
to  know  that  a  river  is  deep,  you  must  have  been  on  the 
point  of  drowning  in  it. 

Recall  the  morning  when,  on  drawing  aside  the  cur- 
tain of  his  bed,  you  saw  on  the  pillow  his  little  face, 
pale  and  thin.  His  sunken  eyes,  surrounded  by  a  bluish 
circle,  were  half  closed.  You  met  his  glance,  which 
seemed  to  come  through  a  veil;  he  saw  you,  without 
smiling  at  you.  You  said,  "Good  morning,"  and  he 

[262] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

did  not  answer.  His  face  only  expressed  dejection  and 
weakness,  it  was  no  longer  that  of  your  child.  He  gave 
a  kind  of  sigh,  and  his  heavy  eyelids  drooped.  You 
took  his  hands,  elongated,  transparent,  and  with  color- 
less nails;  they  were  warm  and  moist.  You  kissed 
them,  those  poor  little  hands,  but  there  was  no  respon- 
sive thrill  to  the  contact  of  your  lips.  Then  you 
turned  round,  and  saw  your  wife  weeping  behind  you. 
It  was  at  that  moment  when  you  felt  yourself  shudder 
from  head  to  foot,  and  that  the  idea  of  a  possible  woe 
seized  on  you,  never  more  to  leave  you.  Every  mo- 
ment you  kept  going  back  to  the  bed  and  raising  the 
curtains  again,  hoping  perhaps  that  you  had  not  seen 
aright,  or  that  a  miracle  had  taken  place ;  but  you  with- 
drew quickly,  with  a  lump  in  your  throat.  And  yet  you 
strove  to  smile,  to  make  him  smile  himself;  you  sought 
to  arouse  in  him  the  wish  for  something,  but  in  vain; 
he  remained  motionless,  exhausted,  not  even  turning 
round,  indifferent  to  all  you  said,  to  everything,  even 
yourself. 

And  what  is  all  that  is  needed  to  strike  down  this 
little  creature,  to  reduce  him  to  this  pitch?  Only  a 
few  hours.  What,  is  that  all  that  is  needed  to  put  an 
end  to  him  ?  Five  minutes.  Perhaps- 

You  know  that  life  hangs  on  a  thread  in  this  frail 
body,  so  little  fitted  to  suffer.  You  feel  that  life  is  only 
a  breath,  and  say  to  yourself:  "Suppose  this  one  is  his 
last."  A  little  while  back  he  was  complaining.  Al- 
ready he  does  so  no  longer.  It  seems  as  though  some- 
one is  clasping  him,  bearing  him  away,  tearing  him 
from  your  arms.  Then  you  draw  near  him,  and  clasp 

[263] 


him  to  you  almost  involuntarily,  as  though  to  give  him 
back  some  of  your  own  life.  His  bed  is  damp  with 
fever  sweats,  his  lips  are  losing  their  color.  The  nos- 
trils of  his  little  nose,  grown  sharp  and  dry,  rise  and 
fall.  His  mouth  remains  wide  open.  It  is  that  little 
rosy  mouth  which  used  to  laugh  so  joyfully,  those  are 
the  two  lips  that  used  to  press  themselves  to  yours, 
and  ...  all  the  joys,  the  bursts  of  laughter,  the  follies, 
the  endless  chatter,  all  the  bygone  happiness,  flock  to 
your  recollection  at  the  sound  of  that  gasping,  breath- 
ing, while  big  hot  tears  fall  slowly  from  your  eyes. 
Poor  wee  man.  Your  hand  seeks  his  little  legs,  and 
you  dare  not  touch  his  chest,  which  you  have  kissed  so 
often,  for  fear  of  encountering  that  ghastly  leanness 
which  you  foresee,  but  the  contact  of  which  would 
make  you  break  out  in  sobs.  And  then,  at  a  certain 
moment,  while  the  sunlight  was  flooding  the  room,  you 
heard  a  deeper  moan,  resembling  a  cry.  You  darted 
forward;  his  face  was  contracted,  and  he  looked  toward 
you  with  eyes  that  no  longer  saw.  And  then  all  was 
calm,  silent  and  motionless,  while  his  hollow  cheeks 
became  yellow  and  transparent  as  the  amber  of  his 
necklaces. 

The  recollection  of  that  moment  lasts  for  a  lifetime 
in  the  hearts  of  those  who  have  loved ;  and  even  hi  old 
age,  when  time  has  softened  your  grief,  when  other 
joys  and  other  sorrows  have  filled  your  days,  his  dying 
bed  still  appears  to  you  when  sitting  of  an  evening  be- 
side the  fire.  You  see  amid  the  sparkling  flames  the 
room  of  the  lost  child,  the  table  with  the  drinks,  the 
bottles,  the  arsenal  of  illness,  the  little  garments,  care- 

[264] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

fully  folded,  that  waited  for  him  so  long,  his  toys  aban- 
doned in  a  corner.  You  even  see  the  marks  of  his 
little  fingers  on  the  wall  paper,  and  the  zigzags  he 
made  with  his  pencil  on  the  door;  you  see  the  corner 
scribbled  over  with  lines  and  dates,  in  which  he  was 
measured  every  month,  you  see  him  playing,  running, 
rushing  up  in  a  perspiration  to  throw  himself  into  your 
arms,  and,  at  the  same  time,  you  also  see  him  fixing 
his  glazing  eyes  on  you,  or  motionless  and  cold  under  a 
white  sheet,  wet  with  holy  water. 

Does  not  this  recollection  recur  to  you  sometimes, 
Grandma,  and  do  not  you  still  shed  a  big  tear  as  you 
say  to  yourself:  "He  would  have  been  forty  now?" 
Do  we  not  know,  dear  old  lady,  whose  heart  still  bleeds, 
that  at  the  bottom  of  your  wardrobe,  behind  your 
jewels,  beside  packets  of  yellow  letters,  the  handwrit- 
ing of  which  we  will  not  guess  at,  there  is  a  little  mu- 
seum of  sacred  relics — the  last  shoes  in  which  he  played 
about  on  the  gravel  the  day  he  complained  of  being 
cold,  the  remains  of  some  broken  toys,  a  dried  sprig  of 
box,  a  little  cap,  his  last,  in  a  triple  wrapper,  and  a 
thousand  trifles  that  are  a  world  to  you,  poor  woman, 
that  are  the  fragments  of  your  broken  heart  ? 

The  ties  that  unite  children  to  parents  are  unloosed. 
Those  which  unite  parents  to  children  are  broken.  In 
one  case,  it  is  the  past  that  is  wiped  out;  in  the  other, 
the  future  that  is  rent  away. 


[265] 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

CONVALESCENCE 

| 

[UT,  my  patient  reader,  forget  what  I 
have  just  said.  Baby  does  not  want 
to  leave  you,  he  does  not  want  to  die, 
poor  little  thing,  and  if  you  want  a 
proof  of  it,  watch  him  very  closely; 
there,  he  smiles. 

A  very  faint  smile  like  those  rays 
of  sunlight  that  steal  between  two 
clouds  at  the  close  of  a  wet  winter.  You  rather  guess 
at  than  see  this  smile,  but  it  is  enough  to  warm  your 
heart.  The  cloud  begins  to  disperse,  he  sees  you,  he 
hears  you,  he  knows  that  papa  is  there,  your  child  is 
restored  to  you.  His  glance  is  already  clearer.  Call 
him  softly.  He  wants  to  turn,  but  he  can  not  yet,  and 
for  his  sole  answer  his  little  hand,  which  is  beginning  to 
come  to  life  again,  moves  and  crumples  the  sheet.  Just 
wait  a  little,  poor  impatient  father,  and  to-morrow,  on 
his  awakening,  he  will  say  "Papa."  You  will  see  what 
good  it  will  do  you,  this  "Papa,"  faint  as  a  mere 
breath,  this  first  scarcely  intelligible  sign  of  a  return  to 
life.  It  will  seem  to  you  that  your  child  has  been  born 
again  a  second  time. 

He  will  still  suffer,  he  will  have  further  crises,  the 
storm  does  not  become  a  calm  all  at  once,  but  he  will 

[266] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

be  able  now  to  rest  his  head  on  your  shoulder,  nestle  in 
your  arms  among  the  blankets;  he  will  be  able  to 
complain,  to  ask  help  and  relief  of  you  with  eye  and 
voice;  you  will,  in  short,  be  reunited,  and  you  will  be 
conscious  that  he  suffers  less  by  suffering  on  your 
knees.  You  will  hold  his  hand  in  yours,  and  if  you 
seek  to  go  away  he  will  look  at  you  and  grasp  your 
finger.  How  many  things  are  expressed  in  this  grasp. 
Dear  sir,  have  you  experienced  it  ? 

"Papa,  do  stay  with  me,  you  help  to  make  me  better; 
when  I  am  alone  I  am  afraid  of  the  pain.  Hold  me 
tightly  to  you,  and  I  shall  not  suffer  so  much." 

The  more  your  protection  is  necessary  to  another 
the  more  you  enjoy  granting  it.  What  is  it  then  when 
this  other  is  a  second  self,  dearer  than  the  first.  With 
convalescence  comes  another  childhood,  so  to  speak. 
Fresh  astonishments,  fresh  joys,  fresh  desires  come  one 
by  one  as  health  is  restored.  But  what  is  most  touch- 
ing and  delightful,  is  that  delicate  coaxing  by  the  child 
who  still  suffers  and  clings  to  you,  that  abandonment 
of  himself  to  you,  that  extreme  weakness  that  gives 
him  wholly  over  to  you.  At  no  period  of  his  life  has  he 
so  enjoyed  your  presence,  has  he  taken  refuge  so  wil- 
lingly in  your  dressing-gown,  has  he  listened  more 
attentively  to  your  stories  and  smiled  more  intelligently 
at  your  merriment.  Is  it  true,  as  it  seems  to  you,  that 
he  has  never  been  more  charming?  Or  is  it  simply  that 
threatened  danger  has  caused  you  to  set  a  higher  value 
on  his  caresses,  and  that  you  count  over  your  treasures 
with  all  the  more  delight  because  you  have  been  all 
but  ruined  ? 

[267] 


But  the  little  man  is  up  again.  Beat  drums;  sound 
trumpets;  come  out  of  your  hiding-places,  broken 
horses;  stream  in,  bright  sun;  a  song  from  you  little 
birds.  The  little  king  comes  to  life  again — long  live 
the  king!  And  you,  your  majesty,  come  and  kiss  your 
father. 

What  is  singular  is  that  this  fearful  crisis  you  have 
gone  through  becomes  in  some  way  sweet  to  you;  you 
incessantly  recur  to  it,  you  speak  of  it,  you  speak  of  it 
and  cherish  it  in  your  mind ;  and,  like  the  companions 
of  yEneas,  you  seek  by  the  recollection  of  past  dangers 
to  increase  the  present  joy. 

"Do  you  remember,"  you  say,  "the  day  when  he  was 
so  ill  ?  Do  you  remember  his  dim  eyes,  his  poor,  thin, 
little  arm,  and  his  pale  lips?  And  that  morning  the 
doctor  went  away  after  clasping  our  hands?" 

It  is  only  Baby  who  does  not  remember  anything. 
He  only  feels  an  overpowering  wish  to  restore  his 
strength,  fill  out  his  cheeks  and  recover  his  calves. 

"  Papa,  are  we  going  to  have  dinner  soon,  eh,  papa  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  getting  dusk,  wait  a  little." 

"But,  papa,  suppose  we  don't  wait?" 

"In  twenty  minutes,  you  little  glutton." 

"Twenty,  is  twenty  a  great  many?  If  you  eat 
twenty  cutlets  would  it  make  you  ill?  But  with  pota- 
toes, and  jam,  and  soup,  and — is  it  still  twenty  min- 
utes?" 

Then  again:  "Papa,  when  there  is  beef  with  sauce," 
he  has  his  mouth  full  of  it,  "red  tomato  sauce." 

"Yes,  dear,  well?" 

"Well,  a  bullock  is  much  bigger  than  what  is  on  the 

[268] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

dish;  why  don't  they  bring  the  rest  of  the  bullock?  I 
could  eat  it  all  and  then  some  bread  and  then  some 
haricots,  and  then- 
He  is  insatiable  when  he  has  his  napkin  under  his 
chin,  and  it  is  a  happiness  to  see  the  pleasure  he  feels 
in  working  his  jaws.  His  little  eyes  glisten,  his  cheeks 
grow  red;  what  he  puts  away  into  his  little  stomach 
it  is  impossible  to  say,  and  so  busy  is  he  that  he  has 
scarcely  time  to  laugh  between  two  mouthfuls.  Toward 
dessert  his  ardor  slackens,  his  look  becomes  more  and 
more  languid,  his  fingers  relax  and  his  eyes  close  from 
time  to  time. 

"Mamma,  I  should  like  to  go  to  bed,"  he  says,  rub- 
bing his  eyes.    Baby  is  coming  round. 


[269] 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

FAMILY  TIES 

'HE  exhilaration  of  success  and  the  fe- 
ver of  life's  struggle  take  a  man  away 
from  his  family,  or  cause  him  to  live 
amid  it  as  a  stranger,  and  soon  he  no 
longer  finds  any  attractions  in  the 
things  which  charmed  him  at  the  out- 
set. But  let  ill  luck  come,  let  the  cold 
wind  blow  rather  strongly,  and  he 
falls  back  upon  himself,  he  seeks  near  him  something 
to  support  him  in  his  weakness,  a  sentiment  to  replace 
his  vanished  dream,  and  he  bends  toward  his  child,  he 
takes  his  wife's  hand  and  presses  it.  He  seems  to  invite 
these  two  to  share  his  burden.  Seeing  tears  in  the  eyes 
of  those  he  loves,  his  own  seem  diminished  to  that  ex- 
tent. It  would  seem  that  moral  suffering  has  the  same 
effect  as  physical  pain.  The  drowning  wretch  clutches 
at  straws;  in  the  same  way,  the  man  whose  heart  is 
breaking  clasps  his  wife  and  children  to  him.  He  asks 
in  turn  for  help,  protection,  and  comfort,  and  it  is  a 
touching  thing  to  see  the  strong  shelter  himself  in  the 
arms  of  the  weak  and  recover  courage  in  their  kiss. 
Children  have  the  instinct  of  all  this;  and  the  liveliest 
emotion  they  are  capable  of  feeling  is  that  which  they 
experience  on  seeing  their  father  weep. 

[270] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

Recall,  dear  reader,  your  most  remote  recollections, 
.  seek  in  that  past  which  seems  to  you  all  the  clearer  the 
farther  you  are  removed  from  it.  Have  you  ever  seen 
your  father  come  home  and  sit  down  by  the  fire  with 
a  tear  in  his  eye  ?  Then  you  dared  not  draw  near 
him  at  first,  so  deeply  did  you  feel  his  grief.  How  un- 
happy he  must  be  for  his  eyes  to  be  wet.  Then  you 
felt  that  a  tie  attached  you  to  this  poor  man,  that  his 
misfortune  struck  you  too,  that  a  part  of  it  was  yours, 
and  that  you  were  smitten  because  your  father  was. 
And  no  one  understands  better  than  the  child  this  joint 
responsibility  of  the  family  to  which  he  owes  every- 
thing. You  have  felt  all  this;  your  heart  has  swollen 
as  you  stood  silent  in  the  corner,  and  sobs  have  broken 
forth  as,  without  knowing  why,  you  have  held  out 
your  arms  toward  him.  He  has  turned,  he  has  under- 
stood all,  he  has  not  been  able  to  restrain  his  grief  any 
further,  and  you  have  remained  clasped  in  one  an- 
other's arms,  father,  mother,  and  child,  without  saying 
anything,  but  gazing  at  and  understanding  one  another. 
Did  you,  however,  know  the  cause  of  the  poor  man's 
grief? 

Not  at  all. 

This  is  why  filial  love  and  paternal  love  have  been 
poetized,  why  the  family  is  styled  holy.  It  is  because 
one  finds  therein  the  very  source  of  that  need  of  loving, 
helping  and  sustaining  one  another,  which  from  time 
to  time  spreads  over  the  whole  of  society,  but  in  the 
shape  of  a  weakened  echo.  It  is  only  from  time  to  time 
in  history  that  we  see  a  whole  nation  gather  together, 
retire  within  itself  and  experience  the  same  thrill. 

[271] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

A  frightful  convulsion  is  needed  to  make  a  million 
men  hold  out  their  hands  to  one  another  and  under- 
stand one  another  at  a  glance;  it  needs  a  superhuman 
effort  for  the  family  to  become  the  nation,  and  for  the 
boundaries  of  the  hearth  to  extend  to  the  frontiers. 

A  complaint,  a  pang,  a  tear,  is  enough  to  make  a 
man,  a  woman,  and  a  child,  blend  their  hearts  together 
and  feel  that  they  are  but  one. 

Laugh  at  marriage;  the  task  is  easy.  All  human 
contracts  are  tainted  with  error,  and  an  error  is  always 
smiled  at  by  those  who  are  not  the  victims  of  it.  There 
are  husbands,  it  is  certain;  and  when  we  see  a  man 
tumble  down,  even  if  he  knocks  his  brains  out,  our  first 
impulse  it  to  burst  out  laughing.  Hence  the  great  and 
eternal  mirth  that  greets  Sganarelle. 

But  search  to  the  bottom  and  behold  that  beneath  all 
these  trifles,  beneath  all  this  dust  of  little  exploded  vani- 
ties, ridiculous  mistakes  and  comical  passions,  is  hidden 
the  very  pivot  of  society.  Verify  that  in  this  all  is  for  the 
best,  since  this  family  sentiment,  which  is  the  basis  of 
society,  is  also  its  consolation  and  joy. 

The  honor  of  our  flag,  the  love  of  country,  and  all 
that  urges  a  man  to  devote  himself  to  something  or 
some  one  not  himself,  are  derived  from  this  sentiment, 
and  in  it,  you  may  assert,  is  to  be  found  the  source 
whence  flow  the  great  streams  at  which  the  human 
heart  quenches  its  thirst. 

Egotism  for  three,  you  say.  What  matter,  if  this 
egotism  engenders  devotion  ? 

Will  you  reproach  the  butterfly  with  having  been  a 
caterpillar? 

[272} 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND  BEBE 

Do  not  accuse  me  in  all  this  of  exaggeration,  or  of 
poetic  exaltation. 

Yes,  family  life  is  very  often  calm  and  commonplace, 
the  stock-pot  that  figures  on  its  escutcheon  has  not 
been  put  there  without  reason,  I  admit.  To  the  hus- 
band who  should  come  and  say  to  me:  "Sir,  for  two 
days  running  I  have  fallen  asleep  by  the  fireside,"  I 
should  reply:  "You  are  too  lazy,  but  after  all  I  under- 
stand you." 

I  also  understand  that  Baby's  trumpet  is  noisy,  that 
articles  of  jewellery  are  horribly  dear,  that  lace  flounces 
and  sable  trimmings  are  equally  so,  that  balls  are 
wearisome,  that  Madame  has  her  vapors,  her  follies, 
exigencies;  I  understand,  in  short,  that  a  man  whose 
career  is  prosperous  looks  upon  his  wife  and  child  as 
two  stumbling  blocks. 

But  I  am  waiting  for  the  happy  man,  for  the  moment 
when  his  forehead  will  wrinkle,  when  disappointment 
will  descend  upon  his  head  like  a  leaden  skull-cap,  and 
when  picking  up  the  two  blocks  he  has  cursed  he  will 
make  two  crutches  of  them. 

I  admit  that  Alexander  the  Great,  Napoleon  the 
First,  and  all  the  demi-gods  of  humanity,  have  only  felt 
at  rare  intervals  the  charm  of  being  fathers  and  hus- 
bands; but  we  other  poor  little  men,  who  are  less  occu- 
pied, must  be  one  or  the  other. 

I  do  not  believe  in  the  happy  old  bachelor;  I  do  not 
believe  in  the  happiness  of  all  those  who,  from  stupidity 
or  calculation,  have  withdrawn  themselves  from  the 
best  of  social  laws.  A  great  deal  has  been  said  on  this 
subject,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  add  to  the  voluminous 
18  [273] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

documents  in  this  lawsuit.  Acknowledge  frankly  all 
you  who  have  heard  the  cry  of  your  new-born  child 
and  felt  your  heart  tingle  like  a  glass  on  the  point  of 
breaking,  unless  you  are  idiots,  acknowledge  that  you 
said  to  yourselves:  "I  am  in  the  right.  Here,  and  here 
alone,  lies  man's  part.  I  am  entering  on  a  path,  beaten 
and  worn,  but  straight;  I  shall  cross  the  weary  downs, 
but  each  step  will  bring  me  nearer  the  village  spire.  I 
am  not  wandering  through  life,  I  am  marching  on,  I 
stir  with  my  feet  the  dust  in  which  my  father  has 
planted  his.  My  child,  on  the  same  road,  will  find  the 
traces  of  my  footsteps,  and,  perhaps,  on  seeing  that  I 
have  not  faltered,  will  say:  'Let  me  act  like  my  old 
father  and  not  lose  myself  in  the  ploughed  land.' ' 

If  the  word  holy  has  still  a  meaning,  despite  the  uses 
it  has  been  put  to,  I  do  not  see  that  a  better  use  can  be 
made  of  it  than  by  placing  it  beside  the  word  family. 

They  speak  of  progress,  justice,  general  well-being, 
infallible  policies,  patriotism,  devotion.  I  am  for  all 
these  good  things,  but  this  bright  horizon  is  summed 
up  in  these  three  words:  "Love  your  neighbor,"  and 
this  is  precisely,  in  my  opinion,  the  thing  they  forget  to 
teach. 

To  love  your  neighbor  is  as  simple  as  possible,  but 
the  mischief  is  that  you  do  not  meet  with  this  very 
natural  feeling.  There  are  people  who  will  show  you 
the  seed  in  the  hollow  of  their  hand,  but  even  those 
who  deal  in  this  precious  grain  are  the  last  to  show  you 
it  in  leaf. 

Well,  my  dear  reader,  this  little  plant  which  should 
spring  up  like  the  poppies  in  the  wheat,  this  plant 

[274] 


MONSIEUR,  MADAME  AND 

which  has  never  been  seen  growing  higher  than  water- 
cress, but  which  should  overtop  the  oaks,  this  undis- 
coverable  plant,  I  know  where  it  grows. 

It  grows  beside  the  domestic  hearth,  between  the 
shovel  and  tongs;  it  is  there  that  it  perpetuates  itself, 
and  if  it  still  exists,  it  is  to  the  family  that  we  owe  it. 
I  love  pretty  nearly  all  the  philanthropists  and  saviours 
of  mankind;  but  I  only  believe  in  those  who  have 
learned  to  love  others  by  embracing  their  own  children. 

Mankind  can  not  be  remodelled  to  satisfy  the  wants 
of  humanitarian  theories;  man  is  egotistical,  and  he 
loves,  above  all,  those  who  are  about  him.  This  is 
the  natural  human  sentiment,  and  it  is  this  which  must 
be  enlarged,  extended  and  cultivated.  In  a  word,  it  is 
in  family  love  that  is  comprised  love  of  country  and 
consequently  of  humanity.  It  is  from  fathers  that 
citizens  are  made. 

Man  has  not  twenty  prime  movers,  but  only  one  in 
his  heart ;  do  not  argue  but  profit  by  it. 

Affection  is  catching.  Love  between  three — father, 
mother,  and  child — when  it  is  strong,  soon  requires 
space;  it  pushes  back  the  walls  of  the  house,  and  by 
degrees  invites  the  neighbors.  The  important  thing, 
then,  is  to  give  birth  to  this  love  between  three;  for  it 
is  madness,  I  am  afraid,  to  thrust  the  whole  human 
species  all  at  once  on  a  man's  heart.  Such  large 
mouthfuls  are  not  to  be  swallowed  at  a  gulp,  nor  with- 
out preparation. 

This  is  why  I  have  always  thought  that  with  the 
numerous  sous  given  for  the  redemption  of  the  little 
Chinese,  we  might  in  France  cause  the  fire  to  sparkle  on 

[275] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

hearths  where  it  sparkles  no  longer,  make  many  eyes 
grow  brighter  round  a  tureen  of  smoking  soup,  warm 
chilled  mothers,  bring  smiles  to  the  pinched  faces  of 
children,  and  give  pleasure  and  happiness  to  poor  dis- 
couraged ones  on  their  return  home. 

What  a  number  of  hearty  kisses  you  might  have 
brought  about  with  all  these  sous,  and,  in  consequence, 
what  a  sprinkling  with  the  watering-pot  for  the  little 
plant  you  wot  of. 

"But  then  what  is  to  become  of  the  redemption  of 
the  little  Chinese?" 

We  will  think  of  this  later;  we  must  first  know  how 
to  love  our  own  before  we  are  able  to  love  those  of 
others. 

No  doubt,  this  is  brutal  and  egotistical,  but  you  can 
not  alter  it;  it  is  out  of  small  faults  that  you  build  up 
great  virtues.  And,  after  all,  do  not  grumble,  this  very 
vanity  is  the  foundation  stone  of  that  great  monument 
—at  present  still  propped  up  by  scaffolding — which  is 
called  Society. 


[276] 


A  MODERN  MIRACLE 


A  MODERN  MIRACLE 


S,  Ma'm'selle  Adele,"  said  the  sew- 
ing-girl, "the  real  happiness  of  this 
world  is  not  so  unevenly  distributed 
after  all."    Louise,  as  she  said  this, 
took  from  the  reserve  in  the  bosom 
of  her  dress  a  lot  of  pins,  and  applied 
them  deftly  to  the  trimming  of  a  skirt 
which  I  was  holding  for  her. 
"A  sufficiently  comfortable  doctrine,"  I  answered, 
"but  it  does  seem  to  me  as  if  some  people  were  born  to 
live  and  to  die  unhappy." 

"It  is  only  folks  who  never  find  anybody  to  love 
enough;  and  I  think  it's  nobody's  fault  but  their 
own." 

"But,  my  dear  Louise,  wouldn't  you  have  suffered 
much  less  last  year,  when  you  came  so  near  losing 
your  boy,  if  you  hadn't  cared  so  much  for  him?" 

I  was  only  drawing  her  on,  you  see:  Louise's  chat 
was  the  greatest  resource  to  me  at  that  moment. 

"Why,  Ma'm'selle  Adele,  you  are  surely  joking. 
You  might  as  well  tell  me  to  cut  off  my  feet  to  save  my 
shoes.  You'll  know  one  of  these  days — and  not  so  far 
off  either,  maybe — how  mighty  easy  and  sensible  it 

[279] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

would  be  not  to  love  your  children.  They  are  a  worry, 
too;  but,  oh,  the  delight  of  'em!  I'd  like  to  have  had 
anybody  tell  me  not  to  love  my  darling  because  it 
might  grieve  me,  when  he  lay  there  in  his  mother's  lap, 
with  blue  lips,  gasping  for  his  breath,  and  well-nigh 
dead;  his  face  blackish,  and  his  hands  like  this  piece 
of  wax.  You  could  see  that  everything  was  going 
against  him;  and  with  his  great  big  eyes  he  was  star- 
ing in  my  face,  until  I  felt  as  if  the  child  was  tugging  at 
my  very  heartstrings.  I  kept  smiling  at  him,  though, 
through  the  tears  that  blinded  me,  hard  as  I  tried  to 
hide  them.  Oh!  such  tears  are  bitter  salt,  indeed, 
Ma'm'selle! 

"And  there  was  my  poor  husband  on  his  knees, 
making  paper  figures  to  amuse  him,  and  singing  a 
funny  song  he  used  to  laugh  at.  Now  and  then  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  would  pucker,  and  his  cheeks 
would  wrinkle  a  little  bit  under  the  eyes.  You  could 
tell  he  was  still  amused,  but  in  such  a  dreamy  way. 
Oh!  our  child  seemed  no  longer  with  us,  but  behind  a 
veil,  like.  Wait  a  minute.  You  must  excuse  me,  for 
I  can't  help  crying  when  I  think  of  it." 

And  the  poor  creature  drew  out  her  handkerchief 
and  fairly  sobbed  aloud.  In  the  midst  of  it,  however, 
she  smiled  and  said:  "Well,  that's  over  now;  'twas 
nothing,  and  I'm  too  silly.  And,  Ma'm'selle,  here 
I've  gone  and  cried  upon  your  mother's  dress,  and 
that's  a  pretty  business." 

I  took  her  hand  in  mine  and  pressed  it. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  you'll  stick  yourself,  Ma'm'selle? 
I've  got  my  needle  in  that  hand,"  she  said,  playfully. 

[280] 


"But  you  did  not  mean  what  you  said  just  now,  did 
you?" 

"What  did  I  say?1' 

"That  it  would  be  better  not  to  love  your  children 
\\ith  all  your  heart,  on  account  of  the  great  anxiety. 
Don't  you  know  such  thoughts  are  wicked?  When 
they  come  into  your  head  your  mind  wants  purifying. 
But  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon  for  saying  so." 

"You  are  entirely  right,  Louise,"  I  returned. 

"Ah!  so  I  thought.  And  now,  let  me  see.  Let's 
fix  this  ruche;  pull  it  to  the  left  a  little,  please." 

"But  about  the  sick  boy.  Tell  me  about  his  re- 
covery." 

"That  was  a  miracle — I  ought  to  say  two  miracles. 
It  was  a  miracle  that  God  restored  him  to  us,  and  a 
miracle  to  find  anybody  with  so  much  knowledge  and 
feeling — such  talent.  Such  a  tender  heart,  and  so 
much,  so  much! — I'm  speaking  of  the  doctor.  A 
famous  one  he  was,  too,  you  must  know;  for  it  was  no 
less  than  Doctor  Faron.  Heaven  knows  how  he  is 
run  after;  and  how  rich  and  celebrated  he  is!  Aren't 
you  surprised  to  hear  that  it  was  he  who  attended  our 
little  boy?  Indeed,  the  wonders  begin  with  that. 
You  may  imagine  my  husband  was  at  his  wits'  end 
when  he  saw  how  it  was  with  the  child;  and  all  of  a 
sudden  I  saw  him  jump  up,  get  out  his  best  coat  and 
hat,  and  put  them  on." 

"  'Where  are  you  going?'  I  asked. 

"  'To  bring  Doctor  Faron.' 

"Why,  if  he  had  said,  'To  bring  the  Prime  Minister,' 
it  would  have  seemed  as  likely. 

[28i§ 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"  'Don't  you  believe  Doctor  Faron  is  going  to  trouble 
himself  about  such  as  we.  They  will  turn  you  out  of 
doors.' 

"  But  'twas  no  use  talking,  my  dear.  He  was  already 
on  the  stairs,  and  I  heard  him  running  away  as  if  the 
house  was  on  fire.  Fire,  indeed ;  worse,  far  worse  than 
any  fire! 

"And  there  I  was,  left  alone  with  the  child  upon  my 
knees.  He  wouldn't  stay  in  bed,  and  was  quieter  so, 
wrapped  up  in  his  little  blanket.  Here  will  he  die,  I 
thought.  Soon  will  his  eyes  close,  and  then  it  will  be 
all  over;  and  I  held  my  own  breath  to  listen  to  his 
feeble  and  oppressed  pantings. 

"About  an  hour  had  passed,  when  I  heard  a  rapid 
step  on  the  stairs — (we  are  poor,  and  live  in  attic  rooms). 
The  door  opened,  and  my  husband  came  in,  wet  with 
perspiration  and  out  of  breath.  If  I  live  a  century  I'll 
not  forget  his  look  when  he  said : 

"'Well?1 

"I  answered:  'No  worse.    But  the  doctor?7 

'"  He's  coming.' 

"Oh!  those  blessed  words!  It  actually  seemed  as  if 
my  child  were  saved  already.  If  you  but  knew  how 
folks  love  their  little  ones.  I  kissed  the  darling,  I  kissed 
his  father,  I  laughed,  I  cried,  and  I  no  longer  felt  the 
faintest  doubt.  It  is  by  God's  mercy  that  such  gleams 
of  hope  are  sent  to  strengthen  us  in  our  trials.  It  was 
very  foolish,  too;  for  something  might  easily  have  pre- 
vented the  doctor's  coming,  after  all. 

"'You  found  him  at  home,  then?'  I  inquired  of  my 
husband. 

[282] 


A  MODERN  MIRACLE 

"Then  he  told  me,  in  an  undertone,  what  he  had 
done,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  wipe  his  face 
and  gather  breath: 

'"I  ran  to  the  Children's  Hospital,  which  he  man- 
ages, hoping  to  find  him  there.  The  porter  showed 
me  a  low  door  at  the  end  of  the  courtyard.  I  knocked 
and  was  let  into  a  room  full  of  young  fellows,  all  smok- 
ing, talking,  and  laughing  away  at  a  great  rate.' ' 

"Ah!  the  wretches!  and  with  dying  folks  all  'round 
'em." 

"Don't  say  that  until  you  know  all.  'What  do  you 
want  here,  friend  ? '  says  a  tall  one  in  a  white  apron  and 
black  sleeves,  and  who,  seeing  my  troubled  looks,  took 
me  on  one  side.  'What's  the  matter?' 

"'I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,  sir,'  I  began. 

"'No  ceremony,  man.    Speak  out.' 

"'I'm  looking  for  Doctor  Faron,  to  come  and  save 
my  child,  sir.  He's  dying  with  croup.  I'm  not  rich, 
but  all  I  can  raise  I  will  give.' 

'"Oh!  that's  all  right,'  says  he.  'How  old's  the 
child.' 

"'Four  years  old,  sir.' 

"'Who's  been  attending  it?' 

"'A  doctor  who  gave  him  little  white  pills  in  a  heap 
of  water,  sir.' 

'"Ah!  hah!'  says  he,  smiling;  'well,  don't  be  down- 
hearted,' and  with  that  he  threw  off  his  apron  and  black 
sleeves,  and  wrote  something  on  a  bit  of  paper.' 

'"Take  this  to  Doctor  Faron.  That's  his  address. 
Where  do  you  live  ?  I'll  come  when  I  get  my  coat  on.' 

'"Oh!  how  kind,  sir!' 

[2833 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"'I  could  have  hugged  him.  But  he  said:  'Come, 
no  nonsense,  friend.  Away  with  you!'  So  I  hurried 
off  to  Doctor  Faron's  house,  with  the  note;  but  he  was 
dining  out.' 

"' Where?'  I  asked,  as  the  servant  held  the  door 
ajar. 

"' Don't  know,'  says  he,  very  short;  and  shut  the 
door  in  my  face. 

"'At  that  I  got  angry,  and  it  seemed  to  me  the  child 
came  before  my  eyes.  I  pushed  open  the  door,  and  in 
I  went. 

"'That  won't  do,'  I  said.  'One  of  the  hospital  doc- 
tors sent  me  here,  and  I  must  know  where  to  find  your 
master,  and  quick,  too.' 

"'Seeing  that  I  wouldn't  stand  trifling,  he  gave  me 
the  direction,  and  growled,  'Now  clear  out,  and  shut 
that  door.' 

"'So  I  rushed  away  to  the  Rue  de  Lille.  The  court- 
yard was  full  of  carriages,  and  the  windows  all  in  a 
blaze  of  light;  but  in  I  went,  for  all  that. 

"'My  boy  will  die! — my  boy  will  die!'  I  kept  repeat- 
ing, as  I  elbowed  through  the  people.  An  old  servant 
stopped  me  in  the  ante-chamber.  'Where  now?'  says 
he. 

"'I  want  to  speak  to  Doctor  Faron,'  says  I;  'I  must 
speak  to  him.  Get  him  to  come  out  here,  won't  you, 
please  ? ' 

"'The  old  fellow  looked  at  me  hard,  and  then 
said  very  kindly,  'Sit  down  there  an  instant,  and  I'll 
try.' 

"'What  possessed  me  to  sit  there  and  cry,  with  all 
[284] 


A  MODERN  MIRACLE 

those  servants  hurrying  about  with  plates  and  dishes, 
I  can't  tell;  but  I  couldn't  help  it. 

'"lira  minute  or  so,  here  comes  a  large  gentleman 
with  a  white  cravat  on.  'Where's  the  man  that  wants 
me?'  he  asked,  in  a  gruff  voice.  Then  seeing  me  there 
in  the  corner  in  such  a  state,  with  a  searching  look  at 
me,  he  took  the  note,  read  it,  and  said  quietly,  'Ah !  the 
noble  boy.'  Then,  turning  to  me : '  Go  home,  my  man ; 
I'll  be  there  directly.  Cheer  up;  I'll  lose  no  time.' 

"My  husband  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words," 
continued  Louise,  "when  I  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs. 
It  was  he!  it  was  that  blessed  angel  of  a  doctor  come 
to  help  us  in  our  sore  distress. 

"And  what  do  you  think  he  said  in  his  deep  voice 
when  he  got  into  the  room  ? 

"'God  bless  you,  my  friends,  but  I  nearly  broke  my 
neck  on  those  stairs.  Where's  that  child?' 

"'Here  he  is,  my  dear,  darling  doctor.'  I  knew  no 
better  way  to  speak  to  him,  with  his  dress-cravat  show- 
ing over  his  great-coat,  and  his  decorations  dangling 
like  a  little  bunch  of  keys  at  his  buttonhole. 

"He  took  off  his  wrappings,  stooped  over  the  child, 
turned  him  over,  more  gently  even  than  his  mother 
could  have  done,  and  laid  his  own  head  first  against  his 
back,  then  against  his  breast.  How  I  tried  to  read  his 
eyes!  but  they  know  how  to  hide  their  thoughts. 

"'We  must  perform  an  operation  here,'  says  he; 
'and  it  is  high  time.' 

"Just  at  this  moment  the  hospital  doctor  came  in, 
and  whispered  to  him,  'I  am  afraid  you  didn't  want  to 
be  disturbed,  sir.' 

[285] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

"'Oh,  never  mind.  I  am  sorry  it  wasn't  sooner, 
though.  Get  everything  ready  now.' 

"But,  Ma'm'selle  Adele,  why  should  I  tell  you  all 
this  ?  I'd  better  mind  my  work." 

"Oh!  go  on,  Louise,  go  on!" 

"Well,  then,  Ma'm'selle,  if  you  believe  me,  those 
two  doctors — neither  of  'em  our  kin,  or  even  friends 
till  then — went  to  work  and  made  all  the  preparations, 
while  my  husband  went  off  to  borrow  lights.  The 
biggest  one  tied  a  mattress  on  the  table,  and  the  assistant 
spread  out  the  bright  little  knives. 

"You,  who  have  not  been  through  it  all,  Ma'm'selle, 
can't  know  what  it  is  to  have  your  own  little  one  in 
your  lap,  to  know  that  those  things  are  to  be  used 
upon  him,  to  pierce  his  tender  flesh,  and,  that  if 
the  hand  that  guides  them  be  not  sure,  they  may  kill 
him. 

"When  all  was  ready,  Doctor  Faron  took  off  his 
cravat,  then  lifted  my  child  from  my  arms  and  laid  him 
on  the  mattress,  in  the  midst  of  the  lamps,  and  said  to 
my  poor  man: 

"'You  will  hold  his  head,  and  your  wife  his  feet. 
Joseph  will  pass  me  the  instruments.  You've  brought 
a  breathing- tube  with  you,  my  son?' 

"'Yes,  sir.' 

"My  husband  was  as  white  as  a  sheet  by  this;  and 
when  I  saw  him  about  to  take  his  place  with  his  hands 
shaking  so  much,  it  scared  me,  so  I  said: 

"'Doctor,  please  let  me  hold  his  head!' 

'"But,  my  poor  woman,  if  you  should  tremble?' 

"'Please  let  me  do  it,  doctor!' 
[286] 


A  MODERN  MIRACLE 

"'Be  it  so  then,'  and  then  added,  with  a  bright  look 
at  me,  and  a  cheering  smile,  'we  shall  save  him  for  you, 
my  dear;  you  are  a  brave  little  woman,  and  you  deserve 
it' 

"Yes,  and  save  him  did  he!  God  bless  him!  saved 
him  as  truly  as  if  he  had  snatched  him  from  the  depths 
of  the  river." 

"And  you  didn't  tremble,  Louise?" 

"You  may  depend  on  that.  If  I  had,  it  would  have 
been  the  last  of  my  child." 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  keep  yourself  steady?" 

"The  Lord  knows,  but  I  was  like  a  rock.  When 
you  must,  you  must,  I  suppose." 

"And  you  had  to  behold  every  detail  of  that  opera- 
tion?" 

"Yes,  indeed;  and  often  have  I  dreamed  it  over 
since.  His  poor  little  neck  laid  open,  and  the  veins, 
which  the  doctor  pushed  aside  with  his  ringers  and  the 
little  silver  tube  which  he  inserted,  and  all  that;  and 
then  the  face  of  the  child,  changing  as  the  air  passed 
into  his  lungs.  You've  seen  a  lamp  almost  out,  when 
you  pour  in  oil?  It  was  like  that.  They  had  laid 
him  there  but  half  alive,  with  his  eyes  all  but  set;  and 
they  gave  him  back  to  me,  pale  and  with  bloodless  lips, 
it  is  true,  but  with  life  in  his  looks,  and  breathing- 
breathing  the  free,  fresh  air. 

"'Kiss  him,  mother,'  says  the  Doctor,  'and  put  him 
to  bed.  Cover  the  place  with  some  light  thing  or  other, 
and  Joseph  must  stay  with  you  to-night;  won't  you, 
Joseph?  Ah,  well,  that's  all  arranged.' 

"  He  put  on  his  things  and  wrapped  himself  up  to 
[287] 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

go.  He  was  shaking  hands  with  my  husband,  when 
I  seized  one  hand,  and  kissed  it — like  a  fool,  as  I  was — 
but  I  didn't  stop  to  think.  He  laughed  heartily,  and 
said  to  my  husband:  'Are  you  not  jealous,  friend? 
Your  wife  is  making  great  advances  to  me.  But  I  must 
be  off  now.  Good-night,  good  people.' 

"And  from  that  night  he  always  talks  so  friendly 
and  familiarly  to  us,  not  a  bit  contemptuously  either, 
but  as  if  he  liked  us,  and  was  glad  to  be  of  service  to  us. 

"The  next  morning,  at  half -past  five,  there  he  was, 
as  fresh  as  a  rose,  and  larger,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  than 
before.  And  no  wonder,  either,  for  don't  you  think 
he  had  brought  four  bottles  of  old  Bordeaux!  two  in 
his  pockets  and  two  under  his  arms. 

"'The  little  fellow  must  take  this,'  says  he.  'Every- 
thing gone  on  well  in  the  night,  eh  ? ' 

"'Admirably  well,  sir,'  answered  Mr.  Joseph.  I  call 
him  Mr.  Joseph,  but  I  have  since  found  out  that  he 
was  a  rising  physician,  nephew  to  the  old  doctor,  and 
far  above  the  common  run.  But  he  always  spoke  to 
the  other  like  a  soldier  to  his  general. 

"Well,  that's  not  all  the  doctor  did;  for  during  the 
entire  week  after,  he  came  every  day,  and  when  I  would 
hear  his  carriage  rumbling  over  our  poor  little  street, 
I  would  say,  'Heaven  knows  what  we  shall  ever  do  to 
pay  him.'  For  we  well  knew  that  Doctor  Faron  at- 
tended dukes  and  noblemen,  and  charged  them  by  the 
thousand. 

"We  had  some  hundred  francs  in  the  Savings,  to  be 
sure,  but  I  was  thinking  what  we  should  do  if  he 
charged  two  or  three  times  as  much.  You  can  under- 

[288] 


stand  how  very  awkward  it  would  have  been.    It  fairly 
made  me  sick. 

"At  last,  one  morning  when  my  husband  was  at 
\orne,  I  mustered  up  all  my  courage  and  began : 

"' Doctor  Faron,  you  have  been  so  good,  too  good 
to  us.  You  have  saved  our  boy's  life.' 

"'You  may  prate  over  that  just  as  much  as  you 
please,  my  dear;  but  recollect  it  is  my  trade  to  cut  up 
such  little  chaps.' 

"'But  not  those  who  live  au  cinquibme  in  the  Rue 
Serpente,  sir.' 

"You  see,  Ma'm'selle,  how  I  was  leading  up  to  the 
question  ? 

"'How's  that?  how's  that?  Why,  what  are  you 
talking  about  ?  Those  before  anybody  else,  to  be  sure. 
Are  they  not  most  in  need?' 

"'I  know  you  have  the  best  heart  in  the  world, 
Doctor;  but  that's  not  what  I  mean.  Now,  that  the 
child  is  well,  we  want  to — we  are  not  rich — but  still— 

"By  this  time  I  was  as  red  as  a  cock's  comb,  and  the 
more  I  tried  to  express  myself  the  worse  it  got. 

"'You  want  to  pay  me.  I  see,  I  see,'  said  he  sud- 
denly. 'Well,  you  owe  me  precisely  nothing,  if  you 
don't  think  that  too  much.' 

"'Oh!  doctor!  we  couldn't — we  must ' 

"'Let  us  pay  according  to  our  means,  Doctor,'  says 
my  husband. 

'"Well,  then,  I  don't  want  to  wound  you,  my  friends. 
If  you  prefer  to  pay  something,  my  charge  is  just  fifty 
francs.  And  now  don't  bother  me  any  more  about  it.' 
Jle  pretended  to  be  angry,  and  it  was  so  droll.  'Don't 


GUSTAVE  DROZ 

bother  me,  I  say,  you  lunatics.  Fifty  francs,  I  tell  you, 
and  not  a  copper  less;  in  specie,  too;  no  paper  money 
for  me.  Next  Sunday  dress  the  little  man,  and  have 
him  ready;  for  I  wish  him  to  take  a  turn  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne.' 

"'Ah!  there's  no  end  to  your  kindness,  Doctor.' 

"'Don't  interrupt  me,  I  say.  After  his  drive,  bring 
him  to  see  me;  and  let  him  fetch  the  money  himself. 
Do  you  hear?' 

"Well,  Ma'm'selle,"  added  Louise,  "that  very  even- 
ing there  comes  a  basket  of  wine,  although  we  hadn't 
finished  the  other.  What  a  man!  you  may  well  say. 
And  I  declare  to  you,  if  he  had  wanted  my  right  arm, 
I  should  have  said,  '  Cut  it  off,  sir.' 

"Fifty  francs,  indeed!  It  wasn't  the  twentieth  of 
what  we  owed  him;  and  he  only  took  that  to  save  our 
feelings.  And,  seeing  this,  I  was  still  more  anxious  to 
please  him;  so  I  bought  some  linen,  the  finest  I  could 
get,  and  didn't  I  make  him  an  elegant  set  of  shirts!" 

"Why,  how  did  you  get  his  measure?" 

"Ah!  that  was  hard;  but  when  I  make  up  my  mind 
nothing  stops  me.  I  went  to  his  valet — who  knew  me, 
because  he  had  brought  the  wine — and  I  told  him  the 
doctor  wanted  me  to  look  over  his  linen  in  the  wash. 
So  I  got  to  the  laundress,  and  I  made  her  think  he  had 
ordered  some  shirts  like  those  she  had  in  hand,  and  so 
I  got  the  pattern. 

"I  was  full  of  work  at  that  time,  but  I  made  all 
those  shirts  at  night;  and  it  gave  me  such  satisfaction 
to  think:  'Ah!  you  won't  let  us  pay  you — you  obstinate 
man — but  you  can't  prevent  my  sitting  up  and  work- 

[290] 


A  MODERN  MIRACLE 

ing  for  you  the  livelong  night ;  and  the  way  I  worked — 
you  should  have  seen  me  at  it ! 

"You  may  depend  on  it  there  was  plenty  of  hem- 
stitching on  those  shirts,  and  you  know  when  I  try  I 
can  hemstitch. 

"But  I  am  trifling  away  my  time,  and  this  dress  will 
never  be  done." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

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LOS  ANGELES 


2220  Droz  - 
D83M7E Monsieur, 


and  bebe 


2220 
D83M7E 


